


Tango At The End Of Winter

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:04:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on an interview (cleftaware2013.wordpress.com/bullying-and-self-image/interviews-and-case-studies/interview-tom-burke) where Tom Burke says Tango is a great healer for a broken heart. I figured Athos might think that, too. He meets Porthos there, and they get to know one another. </p><p>The title's from the same interview, apparently it's a Japanese play T Burke wants to be in. I thought it sounded nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walk

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: PTSD character, no flashbacks but other symptoms described and experienced. past rape mentioned (’off stage’/background characters), alcohol as coping mechanism, eating issues *forgetting to eat),

 Tangoing with Aramis is a lesson in the dramatic. Athos usually tries to avoid it. They are, though, in the unique position of having more men than women in the class, and today Athos was late, and so here he is, being swept around the room. Aramis leads. He dips a lot, where no dips are meant to be. Athos just tries to keep up. He's been coming here and doing this for eight years, now, so he's not tripping, but Aramis is a dancer in every sense of the word, and has been doing it since he could walk, and is really bloody good.

 

“Oh look, here's someone new,” Aramis purrs, turning them and turning them and gliding across the floor to the entry way.

 

Athos looks, when he can safely turn his head without falling flat on his arse. Sure enough, there's a man with a nervous look and a gym bag over one shoulder, hovering. He's tall, and wide, and beautiful, and Athos trips over his feet. Aramis laughs, catching him up in his arms and slowing to a halt, dipping him a final, slow time, lips brushing Athos's stubbly cheek. Athos straightens and pushes him away, making Aramis laugh harder.

 

“Um, hi. I'm here for... um... dancin'?”

 

Aramis and Athos exchange a look, and Athos's lips twitch.

 

“This is the advanced tango class,” Aramis says. “I'm Aramis, I run it. This is Athos, our mainstay who keeps us in silk stockings and champagne.”

 

“Porthos,” the man says, eyes sliding down to their legs, as if looking for stockings.

 

“This is _advanced_ 'dancing',” Louis says.

 

Aramis starts. Athos carefully controls himself from doing the same. Louis has also been doing this for a long time, and it shows in the stealthy way he moves. Even Athos, jumpy and on high alert most of the time, missed his approach. Anne is on Louis's arm, covering her face and shaking her head, trying to pull him away.

 

“Um, okay,” Porthos says. “I've done a bit before. This is the one I could come to, from work. I dunno if I'm good enough, maybe I should keep looking.”

 

“Oh no,” Aramis says, catching Porthos's sleeve, then running a hand up to his shoulder. Porthos shifts uncomfortably and Athos feels sorry for him. Aramis is very tactile. “We're keeping you. You brought a gym bag and everything, you must know something.”

 

“Um,” Porthos says, flushing. “Actually, I just went to the gym. This morning. I'm on my bike, so I brought it up with me.”

 

“A motorcycle. How sexy,” Aramis says.

 

“No,” Porthos says, finally sounding exasperated. “One of the ones you peddle. With a silly helmet. And florescent jackets.”

 

He pulls a high-vis vest out of his coat pocket. Aramis stares at it, then at Porthos. Athos closes his eyes and laughs, like he hasn't in a long time. When he opens his eyes again, having got a hold of himself, everyone is looking at him. Aramis in amazement, Louis in disgust, Anne with a little smile, and Porthos with a look of bewilderment.

 

“It wasn't that funny,” Louis says.

 

“Aramis, my friend,” Athos says. “I don't think I've ever seen your face do that before.”

 

“Are we going to dance, or just chit chat?” Louis snaps.

 

“Yes, you're right,” Aramis says. “Porthos, are those the only shoes you have?”

 

Everyone looks down at Porthos's feet. He's wearing steel-toed boots.

 

“You cycle in those?” Athos asks.

 

“No,” Porthos says. “I work over the road. I was running late, so I- well, ran.”

 

“On the construction site?” Louis asks, in dismay.

 

“I've got trainers, or... other trainers,” Porthos says, rummaging in his bag and coming up with a running shoe and a sneaker.

 

Aramis points at the second and then goes to switch off the music, gathering everyone in the centre of the room to begin. Porthos hurriedly dumps his bag and takes off his coat, and gets out of his boots. Athos waits with him, idly running his eyes over the line of Porthos's back and shoulders as he bends to do the laces.

 

“Alright, people,” Aramis calls. “Let's come together. We have a new member tonight, I expect you all to be nice and welcoming. We're going to look at a piece of choreography tonight, and maybe try out a few of the things we see. Which means, the excitement of a film!”

 

Aramis sets up his tiny phone projector and a square of light illuminates one white plaster wall. Athos wanders over, and Porthos follows him, settling beside him. Athos isn't sure if he's been adopted. They watch in silence as a man and woman take to the floor on the screen. Athos isn't paying enough attention, and when the film stops, five minutes later, he's thinking about what he's going to have for dinner.

 

“We'll just go over a few of the step sequences, to begin with,” Aramis says. “Partner up. Athos, if you'd dance with Porthos tonight? Thank you.”

 

“I'm really sorry,” Porthos says.

 

He sounds miserable, and Athos looks at him again. He's a bit wide eyed, still staring at the wall the video just played on.

 

“Why?” Athos asks.

 

“I'm not... I only know a bit. I think this is probably the wrong level to come to. I'm just sorry that you're stuck with me.”

 

Athos shrugs. He doesn't really mind dancing with Porthos, not at all. Porthos is quite attractive, really, and Athos isn't adverse to dancing with less skilled partners. He dances with d'Artagnan all the time when Constance isn't here, and d'Artagnan's hopeless, always stepping on his partner's feet and forgetting the timing and then forgetting the steps. Athos finds them a space and holds out his

 

arms, waiting for Porthos to join him.

 

“Would you like to lead?” Athos offers.

 

“Oh, um,” Porthos says, a deep flush spreading over his face. His chin comes up in defiance, though, and Athos finds himself smiling a little. “I've never lead. I never learnt.”

 

“Alright,” Athos says. “I'll lead.”

 

He turns them so they can see Aramis, and Aramis beams around at everyone, clapping his hands to get their attention. As they go through the steps, Athos begins to see what Porthos means about only knowing a little. He moves gracefully and has a good sense of timing, but he has to focus on his feet to get the steps right, and more than once he asks about a basic step that's part of the sequence. He knows some of the more complicated things, though.

 

“Very nice, Porthos,” Aramis says, moving through them as they practice the sequences. “Nice posture. See that, d'Artagnan? No bow legs here.”

 

“It's not my fault,” d'Artagnan grumbles, passing them, treading on Constance's toes. “They're just my legs. What do you want me to do about it? Chop them off?”

 

“That wouldn't help your dancing any,” Aramis says. “Not sure it'd make it worse, though, so go ahead and try it.”

 

d'Artagnan laughs, and sails away under Constance's firm guidance. They do a longer sequence next, knitting the steps together into a dance. Porthos struggles, eventually tripping over his own feet. Athos steadies him, ready to continue, but Porthos is breathing hard, head lowered, so Athos waits.

 

“This is humiliating,” Porthos mutters.

 

“You're doing fine,” Athos says.

 

“What's the trouble over here?” Aramis says, coming over.

 

Athos wishes he hadn't. Porthos goes tense all through his body, muscles clenching under Athos's hand.

 

“It's fine,” Athos says. “I'm just taking a breather. I still have a bit of a cold.”

 

Aramis smiles widely at him, and Athos just knows that he's going to be getting comments about the secret mushy heart he supposedly hides beneath a surly exterior. Probably for the next month. Aramis moves away, though, and Porthos gets into place again. Athos slows down the steps so Porthos can keep up.

 

“Now,” Aramis says. “Let's put this to some music, hmm?”

 

With the music it's even worse. Porthos stumbles his way through the sequence, stopping to try and remember the steps, and gripping Athos's hand and arm hard enough to leave bruises. He's panting again by the time they've been through worse.

 

“Relax,” Athos says. “It'll come easier if you relax, and you won't get so tired.”

 

Porthos nods. He's not met Athos's eyes for a good ten minutes. Aramis comes over and beams at them, chivvying them to go through again and watching. He pats Porthos's shoulder half way through and tells him he's doing well before correcting his postures, his position and his steps. Porthos is flushed with embarrassment by the time he's done, and once more gripping Athos's hand.

 

“Alright, enough,” Athos says, when Aramis moves off, dropping his arms.

 

Porthos starts to move back, but Athos touches him arm to still him, looking him up and down.

 

“I imagine you ignore half of what people say to you,” Athos says. “Are you alright with people touching you?”

 

Porthos hesitates, for a long minute.

 

“Depends,” he says at last, sounding like he's dragging the admission out kicking and screaming.

 

“I want to touch your shoulders and stomach, to correct your breathing,” Athos tells him.

 

“Alright,” Porthos says.

 

Athos presses one hand between Porthos's shoulder blades, and the other to his stomach.

 

“I want you to focus on two things,” Athos says. “When you breathe in, breathe from your belly. It should lift my hand a little. When you breathe out, focus on your shoulders, on my hand, and try and relax them. They're up around your ears.”

 

Porthos nods, and they go through it once or twice. On the fourth breath out, Porthos slumps, finally relaxing. He nods again, lips stretching into a smile. It's the first smile Athos has seen from him, and he likes the way it creates a suggestion of dimples, the way it softens his face. Athos smiles back.

 

“Better?” he asks.

 

“Yeah. Thanks.”

 

“It's not a test, it's a class. If you're not keeping up, we'll help you. You know enough to get hold of the steps, you're in the right place. These sequences are made up by Aramis. The rest of us have been here a while, know how he goes about things, are familiar with the steps he's using because he's using steps he's taught us.”

 

“Okay,” Porthos says.

 

“Shall we try again?”

 

Porthos nods. This time, without the anxiety making Porthos tense, it goes better. The next time they manage to actually get through it more or less without pausing. Eventually Porthos remembers the steps all the way through. He's not brilliant, he's still looking at his feet and moving slower than the music, but he's moving half as slow as the music and is still on the beat, and it's kind of nice. Gentler than Aramis's fast-paced rip through a dance, enthusiastic and energetic.

 

Aramis teaches them a second sequence, but when they put it to music, Athos suggests they go back to the first and Porthos agrees without blushing. When Aramis comes over, he falters, but Athos keeps them going and Aramis smiles widely at Porthos and congratulates him. He also corrects a couple of steps and tells Porthos off for slouching to look at his feet, but Porthos takes the instruction with better grace, this time.

 

“Can I have everyone's attention, as you come to the end of what you're doing, please?” Aramis says, walking to the front again and turning the music down. When everyone's come to a stop, Aramis switches the music off. “We're coming to the end, people. I've seen some really good work this evening, you've learnt a lot. We'll bring these sequences back next week as a warm up, and re-use some of the steps going forwards. We now have fifteen minutes for dancing! Traditionally we switch partners now, so I want to see you dancing with someone you wouldn't normally dance with.”

 

Anne and Constance are already standing together, arm in arm, and Louis and d'Artagnan are eyeing one another. There are three other couples tonight, people Athos doesn't know. He doesn't really want to dance with any of them. Porthos looks terrified when one of the women comes to ask him.

 

“I'm Alice,” she says.

 

“I don't know how to lead,” Porthos blurts, voice harsh.

 

“That's okay,” Alice says. “I can lead. I learnt both. I went to a girls' school that taught ballroom.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. “Okay. I'm not very good, though.”

 

“That's okay too,” Alice says, laughing. “It's just for fun, Porthos. Come on.”

 

Athos is left alone, Porthos sending him a last, desperate glance over his shoulder as he's tugged away by Alice. Aramis comes and stands beside him, hands in pockets, grinning.

 

“Alice,” Aramis says, quietly. “Feisty, isn't she? She's a widow. Knows exactly what she wants. I think that might just be Porthos.”

 

“Athos, you're all that's left. Would you?” a willow-thin man says, coming up. He's got white-blonde hair and big teeth and Athos has no clue what his name is.

 

Athos wants to refuse, on the basis that the invitation was poorly given, but Aramis shoves him into the guy's arms and goes to start the music, so Athos has no choice. The man leads, badly. He seems to think he's good, which is annoying. In fact, by the time ten minutes has passed Athos is thoroughly ruffled and irritated. He detaches himself and goes to change his shoes.

 

Porthos comes over to join him, breathless and flushed, but smiling, and Alice comes, too, sitting between them and kicking her way out of heels, lifting her tights covered feet to rub at them. Athos watches, a small bubble of jealousy working it's way to the surface as she presses against Porthos, touches his arm to get his attention, touches his cheek, laughing.

 

“Sorry,” she says. “I really went for it. I was dancing with that dope all night. Athos, you have to agree with me. He's awful.”

 

“He is,” Athos says, stiffly, tying up his laces.

 

“I enjoyed it,” Porthos says, still smiling. “Thank you, Alice.”

 

Athos feels a pang of hurt, that Alice is getting all the credit for Porthos's dancing. He doesn't say anything, though, just speeds up so he can leave them alone to flirt.

 

“Good. You can dance with me next week, then,” Alice says.

 

“Of course, my lady,” Porthos says. Then, as an afterthought. “I was dancing with Athos tonight. You don't mind, Athos, do you?”

 

“Why on earth would I?” Athos says, coldly, tugging on his jacket.

 

“Have you ever done lifts?” Alice asks, hand on Porthos's thigh.

 

“I think I'd crush you. You're strong, but still a little dainty for that,” Porthos says, leaning forward to grin at Athos, laughing.

 

Athos looks away, gets to his feet, and tries to catch Aramis's eye so they can get moving and leave. Aramis is busy flirting, too, though. With Constance. Athos sighs. It always ends with her slapping him.

 

“We go to the pub, after class,” Alice says. “Would you like to join us?”

 

“Um,” Porthos says, going from confident and flirtatious to unsure and uncomfortable in a second flat. “I'm not... would I... would I be welcome?”

 

Athos realises it's addressed to him, that Porthos is looking up at him, face wary and guarded. Athos realises he's being an arse. It's not Porthos's fault that Athos wishes Porthos would flirt with him instead of Alice. He probably assumes Athos is straight and is just a grumpy old bastard who's taken a dislike to him. Athos manages a small smile. It seems to be enough; Porthos beams back, accepts Alice's invitation, and sets about cramming his work boots into his gym bag and hustling into his coat. Across the room, Constance slaps Aramis.

 

At the pub Athos leaves Aramis to get them both drinks and goes to find a good table. There's a nook, tucked in behind the bar, that's his favourite, and tonight it's free. He gets himself a nice corner seat where he can survey the comings and goings, and glares at anyone who approaches looking like they're going to ask him if the tables are free. One of the men Athos doesn't know has come along, and he and Porthos and Alice come through first. Alice sits with the man, at the other end of the table, but Porthos comes and sits next to Athos.

 

“Not keeping the lovely widow company?” Aramis says, bouncing over with two glasses of wine and sitting on Athos's other side, smiling warmly at Porthos. Porthos scowls in return.

 

“Her name's Alice. She's been very kind to me tonight, but I thought I'd let her have some peace and talk to her friend,” Porthos says, curtly.

 

“I know her name,” Aramis says, sounding dismayed. “Athos, I do know her name. I was just being facetious. I like Alice. Tell him, Athos.

 

“I think the pertinent question, really,” Athos says, quietly, amused. “Is whether she likes you.”

 

“Athos!” Aramis says, too loud, getting everyone's attention. “You wound me to the core, mon ami!”

 

“You two are as bad as each other,” Porthos says, glowering into his pint.

 

When d'Artagnan sits between Porthos and Alice's friend (crawling under the table to get in without disturbing anyone), Porthos turns pointedly to talk to him. d'Artagnan looks a bit alarmed, and takes a gulp of his orange juice, choking on it and going scarlet in the face. Porthos sighs and slumps back.

 

“I give up,” he says, softly, to Athos. “I get the feelin' she wouldn't mind, anyway.”

 

“She doesn't,” Athos says, also softly, taking pity on him. “It's sweet of you to try, but Aramis is just... Aramis.”

 

Aramis is cheerfully bickering with Constance over ballet ('it's not your area of expertise, Aramis, and frankly you sound ridiculous'). Alice and d'Artagnan are teasing the man whose name Athos can't for the life of him remember. That leaves Athos to make Porthos feel welcome. He casts about for a topic of conversation, but it's never been his strong point, and all he comes up with is an innocuous statement about the age of the building. Porthos responds simply by nodding, and they sit in awkward silence.

 

“I can't work out if you're mad at me, or you just don't like me, or if you're just generally a quiet bloke,” Porthos says, after another ten minutes of it. He's tearing up a beer mat, fingers moving anxiously over the little square and tugging, and his leg's bouncing up and down.

 

“I'm just hopeless at conversing,” Athos assures.

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. The jigging leg stops. “You don't not like me, then?”

 

Athos hesitates, working through the double negative, and Porthos's shoulders slump.

 

“Yes,” Athos says, quickly. “I mean, no. I mean I do like you. I mean I don't dislike you. I mean- damn it I've only known you five minutes!”

 

Porthos looks stricken, then his eyes squinch shut and he huffs a couple of times, then breaks out laughing. It's a huge, bellowing laugh that fits him to a tee, and Athos finds himself smiling at it.

 

“You got me muddled with the double negative,” Athos defends.

 

“I ain't been using no double negatives,” Porthos says, then bellows with laughter again.

 

“How terribly witty,” Louis says, from behind Athos. “Not. That was sarcasm.”

 

He's crammed himself in between Athos and Aramis, a flute-glass in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other. Anne's joined Constance, and they've teamed up to try and make d'Artagnan combust. Or it seems so. He's gone scarlet again, under their gentle teasing. Even the skin on the backs of his hands is flushed. Porthos is scowling at Louis.

 

“Athos,” Louis says, hand closing on Athos's arm. “Is he going to hit me? He looks like that sort of a brute.”

 

Athos ignores Louis, shaking his arm free, and glares at Aramis for letting the idiot sit here. Aramis just shrugs and smiles and gets up to go get more wine. Or that had better be where he's going. Athos is going to need a lot more wine if his evening is going to be full of Louis.

 

“People like him have such little education,” Louis says. “They can't seem to see the difference between a joke and an insult.”

 

“Is that a poke at the colour 'a my skin?” Porthos growls.

 

“Good lord, no. I'm not a racist,” Louis says. “Though, seeing as you brought it up, where are you from? I have an interest in Nigeria. I'm investing there at the moment. It's all terribly exciting. Or so Richelieu tells me. My man, you know.”

 

“You make him sound like your butler,” Athos says, pleased with the idea. Armand Richelieu, investment broker to the high and mighty, would go a very interesting shade if he heard Louis talking about him that way.

 

“Shut up, Athos. Let Paul speak. Where are you from?”

 

“London,” Porthos grits out, and Athos belatedly remember that he isn't used to Louis. He turns to say something, but Porthos is giving him and Louis an equally disgusted look.

 

“What did I say?” Athos asks.

 

“Nothin',” Porthos says. “Absolutely nothin'.”

 

Aramis arrives with more wine, a whole bottle which he tops his own glass up with then passes across to Athos wordlessly. He also gets Louis's attention by insulting West Ham, the team Louis's decided to support this week. Louis goes bowling to the rescue of 'his men'. Aramis mouths 'you owe me', and Athos raises his glass in acknowledgement before turning back to Porthos.

 

“Have you ever read the Wind in the Willows?” Athos asks.

 

“No,” Porthos says. Then, grudgingly, “I saw it as a play, though.”

 

“Louis is our Toadie. Without the, you know, decentness. His brain is full of feathers and he's so flighty and fickle. There's no point saying anything to him,” Athos says.

 

“Right,” Porthos says, clearly not believing it.

 

“Hey, Louis?” Athos says, poking him till he turns with a glare. “You know you asked Porthos where he was from? That was an ignorant question. It others people, marking them as 'not belonging'.”

 

“I never asked that,” Louis says. “I know all that. Duh. I was just talking about my investments. It was you who wondered if Paul knew anything about it.”

 

Athos turns back to Porthos, who's staring at Louis. Porthos nods slowly, and Louis makes a cross noise and turns back to Aramis.

 

“See?” Athos says.

 

“Yeah. He really believes it, too,” Porthos says. “Any point in telling him my name's not 'Paul'?”

 

“Probably not. He calls Alice a different name every week. He'll get it eventually. He knows both mine and Aramis's name, now. Oh, this is fun. He calls Constance 'Harry' and d'Artagnan 'Artemis'.”

 

“Harry?” Porthos asks, face scrunching up in confusion.

 

“We don't know,” Athos says.

 

“Artemis. He can get Artemis, but not-” Porthos cuts himself off, shaking his head. He looks happier, so Athos sits back and gets to work on his bottle.

 

Porthos seems content to sit in silence, when he knows Athos isn't mad at him. Athos watches him, and Porthos watches everyone else, taking it all in. He looks like he's memorising people. Their reactions, their laughs, the things that get their attention. When anyone gets annoyed (with Louis and d'Artagnan at the same table it happens) Porthos's brows lower, and his hand tightens on his glass until it's resolved. It makes Athos ache. By the time Porthos finishes his pint, Athos is halfway through the wine bottle.

 

“Would you like a top up?” He offers, holding the wine bottle out over Porthos's glass, which Porthos quickly covers.

 

“No, thank you. I don't imagine wine and beer really mix,” Porthos says.

 

“I suppose you're right. I could send Aramis to get you a glass,” Athos offers.

 

“Still no,” Porthos says. “I should head off soon, got to work in the morning.”

 

Athos considers talking him into it, seeing as it's Friday and they're young, or something like that. Porthos smothers a yawn, though, and he looks tired. Instead, Athos shoves Louis out of the way so they can get out and walks Porthos to the door.

 

“Thank you,” Porthos says, sounding awfully sincere. “For... for your kindness.”

 

“Don't thank me,” Athos says. “Haven't you heard? Kindness kills.”

 

Porthos giggles, to Athos's surprise. Actual giggles, tumbling out of Porthos's big body, out of place and, well, sweet. Athos curses himself, because as soon as he thinks sweet it opens up a flootgate, and his brain labels Porthos's dimples as cute and his scrunched up confused face as adorable and his curls as soft and his general person-hood as lovely. There's no end to it. Athos scowls.

 

“Sorry,” Porthos says. “Wasn't laughin' at you. Well, I was. That comes from those charity things about giving money to the homeless, you daft sod. Kindness doesn't kill.”

 

“It's a concept, doesn't exist,” Athos says.

 

“It does,” Porthos says, soft and sure. “It exists. It's seen as too soft, and a weakness. But kindness is something you give, asking nothin' in return. It's strength. There's not enough of it in this world. You were kind to me, I know it. I'm not easy when I'm defensive and anxious, I know that. So thank you for your kindness.”

 

“Oh,” Athos says.

 

Porthos tilts his head onto one side, assessing Athos.

 

“Do you mind touchin'?” Porthos asks.

 

“I'm not... big on it,” Athos says, warily. “But not, it won't trigger anything for me.”

 

Porthos beams, and engulfs him in a bear hug. It's like being enveloped in warmth, and Athos only tries to deny himself a moment before he sinks into it, sighing, and returns it.

 

“You looked like you needed that,” Porthos says, when they break apart.

 

“No,” Athos says, with great dignity, straightening his clothes. “It was a surprise.”

 

“A surprise hug attack, eh?” Porthos says, still smiling warmly. “Did you mind it?”

 

“No,” Athos says, unwillingly. “I don't mind it. Do you mind? Surprise hug attacks, I mean?”

 

“I like a little warnin',” Porthos admits. “Let me know what you're doin'. Are you planning one?”

 

“Maybe,” Athos says, because he's pretty sure- yep.

 

There it is. A wide, pleased smile cracks across Porthos's face, lighting up his eyes and making him dimple (cutely). Athos sighs and shakes his head. Porthos bites his lips, trying to stop the smile or something, and then just shrugs, beaming.

 

“It was nice to meet you, Athos,” Porthos says, around his ridiculous grin. “See you next week?”

 

“I'm there every week,” Athos assures.

 

Porthos smiles impossibly wider, then ducks out into the night. Athos returns to the table slowly, thinking, trying to box up his attraction to Porthos and put it away. He returns to his wine and glares at d'Artagnan when it feels a little lighter. d'Artagnan points at Louis, though, which makes as much sense.

 

The next week Athos tries to tamp down his anticipation, but it's no good. He stops working far too early, drinks far too much wine, and turns up a little drunk and very early. Aramis, who is used to this, merely rolls his eyes and sets Athos to dance with one of his current class. Athos corrects her posture and hold and sweeps her around the room in a slightly manic waltz, so Aramis disconnects them and sends Athos to sit by the ipod speakers. When Athos changes the music, he gets sent to sit in the hall. Athos sits on the top step and bemoans his fate to the class members as they exit and arrive.

 

“You're drunk!” d'Artagnan greets him in delight. “Good. I'm dancing with you tonight, Constance has a conference. It is apparently very important so I've been exiled until eleven pm.”

 

“Poor, poor d'Artagnan,” Athos commiserates. “I've been exiled, too.”

 

“By who?”

 

“Aramis.”

 

“Why?”

 

“He's a big, fat, greasy meanie,” Athos says, looking sadly up at d'Artagnan.

 

d'Artagnan laughs so hard he falls down the stairs. Only a few steps, though. Before he can go all the way down and fall on his head, he's caught and righted by someone big and strong and gorgeous.

 

“Porthos!” Athos calls, getting to his feet. “You came back.”

 

“You alright?” Porthos asks.

 

“Of course,” Athos says.

 

“He was asking me,” d'Artagnan says. “Yeah, I'm okay. Thank you. I could have died! You saved my life, Paul.”

 

“It's Porthos,” Porthos growls, keeping hold of d'Artagnan and marching him up the stairs.

 

“He only heard it from Louis,” Athos defends d'Artagnan, feeling the marching is a bit unfair. “No need to manhandle him.”

 

“I'm makin' sure he doesn't topple down again,” Porthos says, grinning. “He's all shaky.”

 

“I'm not,” d'Artagnan says. “Oh, right, yeah, I am. That was scary.”

 

“Yeah. Come in and sit,” Porthos says, steering d'Artagnan toward the door. He leans back out and pulls Athos gently in, too. “I don't trust you not to topple down either.”

 

“I won't,” Athos assures.

 

“He's drunk,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“I can tell,” Porthos says. “Any particular reason he's drunk at half past five?”

 

“He drinks when he's lonely,” d'Artagnan says.

 

Porthos is wearing a hat. And a really orange jacket. It intrigues Athos, so he takes the hat and strokes the jacket.

 

“Came right over,” Porthos says.

 

“He's a feely drunk,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“So I see,” Porthos says, gently putting a bit of distance between them. “Athos? No touching tonight, eh?”

 

Athos nods, taking his hands back. It's sad, but if Porthos wants it that way, that's okay. Athos tries on the hat, to make d'Artagnan laugh again.

 

“Are you three joining in tonight, or are you just hanging around for the free music?” Aramis asks, coming over.

 

Athos goes to hug him, latching on around his neck. Aramis doesn't mind touching. Athos presses his nose into Aramis's neck.

 

“He's drunk,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“I know. He came in half way through my last lesson, taught Fleur to waltz, then put on 'Time Warp' and sang along. I honestly considered giving him more wine. He's an annoying drunk until a certain point, when he becomes a quiet, moody drunk,” Aramis says.

 

“I didn't sing along,” Athos says. “Did I?”

 

“Yes, my darling, you did,” Aramis says. “d'Artagnan, are you up for dancing with him tonight?”

 

“Yup. I like drunk Athos, he's cuddly.”

 

“I am not,” Athos says, burying himself in Aramis's hair and squeezing him.

 

“Porthos, you can dance with me,” Aramis says.

 

“I promised Alice... but I don't know if she meant it,” Porthos says.

 

Athos lets go of Aramis and goes to Porthos, but Porthos isn't looking at him, and he said no touching, so Athos stops and blows at him instead. Porthos turns, eyebrows raised, then smiles. He pulls Athos into a hug.

 

“Thank you,” Porthos says. “For not touching me. I'm feeling a bit jumpy, wouldn't have liked it much.”

 

“You said, so I didn't. I like this hug. You're very good at hugs.”

 

“So I've been told. I'm going to go see if Alice wants to dance, now, though.”

 

Porthos leaves. Athos watches him. He keeps on watching Porthos when they're dancing. He's not very good, but he moves well and it's nice to watch. d'Artagnan seems perfectly happy not to do much, so they mostly slow dance. Aramis ignores it for a while, then comes over.

 

“You're paying me for this, d'Artagnan,” Aramis says. “Athos, go lie down and sleep it off, hmm?”

 

“Alright,” Athos says.

 

He goes and lies down on the mat by the speakers, and watches Porthos from there. He falls asleep between one step and another, thinking about how lovely Porthos's shoulders look in his worn sweatshirt. He dreams about Porthos, on a boat, dressed like a sailor. It's beautiful.

 

“I meant go home, not pass out quietly in a corner,” Aramis says, waking him up from the boat dream. “Never mind. Are you sober yet?”

 

“Yes,” Athos growls, batting Aramis's hands away and sitting up, looking around. Everyone's already getting ready to leave. “I slept for two hours?”

 

“Just about.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Athos finds Porthos, sitting with Alice again. Flirting again. Porthos sees him awake and waves, getting up and coming over, turning to say something to Alice. Athos gets to his feet and brushes himself off, wondering if he has any dignity left.

 

“Hi,” Porthos says, handing Aramis a fiver. “Alice invited me to the pub again, but I'm going to head home. A bit tired, tonight.”

 

“Alright,” Aramis says. “Thanks. If you're going to make this a regular thing, I do a ten classes offer if you pay all at once.”

 

“Can't afford it,” Porthos says. “This works better for me. If that's okay?”

 

“Yes, of course. Whatever you like. Athos has been coming for ten bloody years and still gives me five pounds a week.”

 

“Eight years,” Athos says.

 

“Whatever,” Aramis says, wandering off to straighten the small studio.

 

“I wanted to say thank you,” Porthos says. “For not touching me.”

 

“Of course. I'm an ex-soldier, I know to respect someone's wishes on that.”

 

“Where did you serve?”

 

“The Gulf war. I did one tour, as a rebellious act of stupidity, and I was very very lucky. We all came home. Did you serve?”

 

“Nah, not me. My partner did. Joined up when he was sixteen, did three tours then got caught on a drugs test after a long leave, and kicked out.”

 

“That sucks.”

 

“Nah,” Porthos says again, smiling. “It was alright. He's the one who taught me to dance. He was a dancer, really. Thought he'd never make money out of it, but war sobered him up a bit, and he buckled down, got an education, networked, and started doing it professionally. He's got his own company, now.”

 

“That's good. He did well, then,” Athos says, heart sinking. Porthos is gay, but he's already dating someone.

 

“Yeah. He does a lot of stuff, mixes it together. Tried to teach me to spin on my head, once, like in those YouTube videos.”

 

“Can you do it?”

 

“I said tried to teach me. I ended up with a concussion, and a split lip.”

 

Athos's eyes are drawn to Porthos's lips.

 

“What does he think of you coming to classes?” Athos asks, drawing his attention away from Porthos's lips. “Instead of learning from him, I mean.”

 

“Huh? Oh! Uh, no. We broke up years ago, this is all past history,” Porthos says. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing around. “Just needed something apart from work, you know?”

 

“I know,” Athos says, nodding. It's part of the reason he still comes, every week like clockwork.

 

Athos finds his eyes drawn back to Porthos's lips. He's single after all, and he has really nice lips, and Athos really needs to stop because Porthos has been flirting with Alice, not Athos. Even though his ex was a man doesn't mean anything. Gay, bi, unicorn's rainbow farts, Porthos still didn't pick Athos to flirt with.

 

“Are you two coming?” Aramis asks, holding open the door. “Only I'd like to get to the pub before it closes.”

 

They head out together, stopping on the street to say goodbye. Porthos doesn't give Athos a hug this time. Athos's brain is seething, putting together all the information Porthos has given him and drawing stupid conclusions about his availability and interest. Athos has to keep reminding himself, all night, of Alice.

 

Athos doesn't drink, the next week, and he doesn't stop working early. He goes and meets Porthos and they dance together, and it's easy and companionable. They fall into a pattern, getting used to dancing with one another. It becomes automatic to start together, though Porthos sometimes dances with Alice or d'Artagnan, later, or Aramis will come and take him away from Athos to check how his steps are coming along. Porthos comes to the pub, but not every week. He sometimes bows out, but he usually hangs around a bit afterwards, on those evenings, chatting with Athos until Aramis gets bored and threatens to lock them in.

 

By the end of the month it's familiar, and by the end of eight weeks, he's expecting it. Which is, of course, when the pattern breaks. His head's not at all in a 'work' place, and all he wants to do is laze around with TV on and a bottle of wine. But he's got his deadline approaching for a book, and so he forces himself to do a couple of hours. In fact, he forces himself to keep working until he stops thinking, and he gets more done than he has in a while. And he's late for the class. He runs up the stairs and slips inside, eyes searching for Porthos. He doesn't find Porthos, just Aramis smiling at him and beckoning him over.

 

“We've got an odd number, tonight,” Aramis says. “I've been dancing with Patrick, but you should take over.”

 

“Where's Porthos?” Athos asks.

 

“I don't know. Hasn't shown up,” Aramis says, shrugging. “Maybe he gave it up. Come on, you're already behind.”

 

“I can't believe I pay for the privilege of having you irritate me,” Athos says.

 

He gets on with it, though. Patrick is very good, and it's enjoyable, not leading for once. Patrick. Athos suddenly realises he's Alice's friend, who comes to the pub sometimes. He's attractive, too. A Chinese man with thick, dark hair and dark, amused eyes. He dances neatly, precisely, and demands Athos keep up or fall on his face. It's a challenge.

 

They're going over old sequences, short pieces of choreography. Aramis seems to be taking advantage of the fact that they're all old hands, running them through things they've long known. It becomes clear why, when, halfway through the lesson he breaks out an entire piece, and tells them that they're going to perform it.

 

“Are you demanding this of us, or asking for volunteers?” Athos drawls, arm around Patrick's waist.

 

“I think he's after a blood sacrifice,” Patrick says.

 

Athos lets his lips twitch up.

 

“Shut up, both of you,” Aramis says. “I am offering you a chance, that is all. Except you two. You two I'm sacrificing to the gods of theatre, in order to make sure things go well.”

 

Patricks laughs.

 

“Am I too late?” Porthos says, and everyone turns to him.

 

He looks awkward, and the longer people stare, the more he shifts. Aramis waves them all away and points them towards the handouts he's given them with the choreography written out. Athos trails after Aramis to say hi to Porthos.

 

“Not too late, we're looking at some new choreography. Old steps, old sequences. I can go over some of the steps with you, while the others practise,” Aramis says.

 

“Oh. I don't want to be an inconvenience,” Porthos says.

 

“I'll dance with him,” Athos says. “I'm not going to do your performance thing anyway. It's not my style.”

 

“Athos,” Aramis says, turning pleading eyes on him.

 

“Nope,” Athos says.

 

“Fine, fine. Break my heart for Porthos,” Aramis says, meeting Athos, eyes mischievous.

 

Athos glares. Porthos sits down and takes off his boots, trying to be quick. Athos frowns, seeing a slight tremor in Porthos's hand. Athos sits beside him, careful not to touch.

 

“Are you alright?” Athos asks.

 

“Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Just a bit tired.”

 

Athos nods. He watches Porthos tie his laces, noting the way it takes longer than usual, the tired stoop of Porthos's shoulders, the tight, shallow breathing. Athos makes an executive decision. He catches Aramis's eye and nods to the door. Aramis frowns, but Athos has left in the middle before. Aramis glances at Porthos, frown deepening, then nods back to Athos.

 

“Come on,” Athos says, getting up and heading out onto the landing.

 

Porthos follows. Athos expects questions, but Porthos doesn't ask any, just trails after him down to the street, then waits. Athos stops, looks around. He hadn't planned this far. He looks at Porthos, and sees amusement.

 

“I thought you might prefer to go home,” Athos says.

 

“Perhaps,” Porthos says. “I'm tired. Ran a little late, tonight.”

 

“Would you like some company? I assume that is why you came even so,” Athos says.

 

“I wouldn't say no,” Porthos says, cautious, keeping a good three feet of distance between them. “I'm not going to be good company, though.”

 

“Fair enough. Which way is your house? Unless you'd rather come home with me?”

 

“I cycle. It's a bit of a walk.”

 

“I've got a car, if you walk five minutes to mine,” Athos says.

 

Porthos considers it, then sighs, rubbing his face.

 

“I was going to walk, anyway, to be honest. Not sure I'd be safe on a bike,” Porthos says. He looks a little helpless, and much smaller than he is. “A ride would be nice actually.”

 

They start walking. Athos becomes aware of how tight Porthos is holding himself, careful not to enter Athos's space at all. Athos runs through possible reasons for this.

 

“I'm not going to touch you,” Athos says, softly, stopping in front of his house. “Not unless you ask me to.”

 

“Okay,” Porthos says, relaxing a tiny increment.

 

“What do you need from me?” Athos asks. “Do you know?”

 

“Just don't want to be touched right now,” Porthos mutters, looking at the floor. “Don't want to risk it at all.”

 

“I'll be careful,” Athos says. Porthos nods. “Really. Let me take the care.”

 

Porthos nods again, a little slower, relaxing a little more. Athos opens the garage.

 

“Wait here,” Athos says. “I'll get the car out.”

 

He backs it onto the road before getting out to shut the garage up, careful not to encroach on Porthos's space. He lets Porthos get into the car and buckle himself in before getting behind the wheel again. Porthos watches him, staring intently, the whole way. The only respite from the silence are the short grunts that make for directions. Athos offers to pick up Porthos's bike, but Porthos waves that aside.

 

Porthos lives about fifteen minutes away, in a poorer neighbourhood. It's full of blocks of flats, seventies style of cinder block and pebble dash. There are cement walkways running the length of each floor of the building Porthos points out, doors all the way along and a staircase at one end. Porthos leads him right to the top and unlocks the door at the end. It's yellow, cheap wood, a simple Yale lock.

 

“It's not much,” Porthos says. “I share it. Got my own room, though.”

 

Athos nods. He's a little surprised. Construction doesn't pay badly, he'd expected Porthos to live alone. He must be only a little younger than Athos himself, and most of the people Athos knows have their own places. Then again, most of the people Athos knows are middle class, most even upper middle class. He gets the feeling Porthos probably isn't.

 

Inside the flat opens right up into the living-room, a kitchen visible through a hatch. It's clean and tidy, and there's a shoe rack and coat pegs by the door.

 

“It's not much,” Porthos says again, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“Are there lights?” Athos asks. “Or do we sit in the dark?”

 

“Oh, right,” Porthos says. “Sorry.”

 

He flicks on an overhead light, and Athos looks around. He toes off his shoes and wanders into the middle of the living-room, examining the picture on the wall, peering at the books on the shelves. The picture's an A2 print of something by Mattise. Athos spots Terry Pratchett and Agatha Christie on the shelves.

 

“Do you want a drink?” Porthos offers, heading into the kitchen and putting the light on in there, too. “Oh. Damn it.”

 

Athos follows him, curious. It's a mess in the kitchen, the counter covered in crockery and food detritus. Porthos is looking a little overwhelmed.

 

“Flat mate?” Athos guesses.

 

“I swear, she uses every pan and plate possible. Um, sorry, did you say you would like a drink? I have tea, and coffee. I think there might be milk in the fridge. Um, only instant coffee.”

 

“Are you having anything?”

 

“I... no. I wasn't planning on it, to be honest.”

 

“I'm fine, in that case.”

 

Porthos nods. Then nods again.

 

“I should eat something,” Porthos mutters, looking around. “Are you hungry? I should eat dinner.”

 

“Let me make you something?” Athos asks.

 

“I don't know. I don't know what I've got. It's probably just pasta.”

 

“I'm not much of a cook, but I can manage pasta and pesto?”

 

“I don't think I have pesto. I have some cheese.”

 

“Tell me what you'd like, and I'll make it.”

 

Porthos nods. He looks at the mess on the counter again and sighs, rubbing his face. He gets a bag of pasta, unopened, out of a cupboard, then a courgette from the fridge and some cheese, and then looks around again. Athos moves him gently aside and puts the kettle on to boil, and quickly washes out a pan, putting a bit of water in and dumping it on the stove. He washes a second pan and clears the side, chopping the courgette.

 

“You shouldn't do the dishes,” Porthos says. “I have clean pans.”

 

“Bit late now,” Athos says. “Never mind. I'll leave the rest. Do you have a clean plate?”

 

Porthos nods, but pulls out a wide pasta bowl instead. Athos concentrates on the pasta, making sure he doesn't mess it up. He really isn't much of a cook. He can cook a courgette. Aramis told him how. You just put it in the water, and wait for it to boil, leave it for a minute and it's done. And everyone can manage pasta. Athos does not manage to have them all finish at the same point, so the courgette's a little cold. Porthos doesn't seem to mind, though. He sits in the living-room and carefully grates cheese over everything, then eats. He eats as if he's starving, as if he hasn't eaten all day.

 

“Forgot me lunch,” Porthos says, when he's done, putting his plate aside. “That's better. Sorry.”

 

“No wonder you're not feeling great,” Athos says. “If you haven't eaten all day, I mean.”

 

“Johnny gave me a sandwich,” Porthos says, with a shrug, sitting back.

 

He doesn't seem concerned about it, so Athos drops it. He wonders if he should offer to go home, but doesn't.

 

“I hardly ever sit out here,” Porthos says. “I'd forgot the picture was here.”

 

“It's nice,” Athos offers.

 

“I'm going to see if my flat mate's in. Hang on.”

 

There's a square hallway at the end of the room, off the living-room. There are three doors off it, and it's one of these Porthos bangs on. It opens, and Porthos has a whispered argument, then someone shuffles through the living-room to the kitchen.

 

“Bring your plate, dulzura. If I'm doing the dishes, might as well do them all,” she says, poking her head through the hatch, her accent strange to Athos's ear.

 

“Athos, this is Samara,” Porthos says, passing his plate through.

 

“I am his house mate,” Samara says, smiling. “He doesn't like sharing. But I'm only here till the end of the month, so he'll manage with a few dishes in the sink.”

 

She reaches an arm through the hatch to pat at Prothos's chest, laughing softly. Porthos kisses her knuckles, giving Athos an embarrassed look. Athos smiles. Porthos doesn't seem to mind Samara touching him, which, to Athos, suggests that there's a lot of trust between them. He's glad.

 

“We're going to sit in my room,” Porthos says. “Are you goin' out tonight?”

 

“No. I am staying here. That magazine, the English one, agreed to publish two of my poems. I need to edit them.”

 

“'kay,” Porthos mumbles, rubbing his face again and yawning. “I'm pretty tired. If I fall asleep on Athos, be nice to him?”

 

“Are you alright?” Samara says, coming around via the door and touching Porthos's shoulder, his cheek. “You look sick. Are you getting sick?”

 

“No,” Porthos says, ducking when Samara tries to feel his forehead. She just lets her hand fall and tries again, catching him this time. “I'm not sick. Leave me be.”

 

“Alright. Play nicely with your little friend.”

 

Porthos gives Athos an apologetic shrug, then leads him to the door opposite the one Samara came out of. It's almost the same size as the living-room, with a bed in one corner and a small dining table with a laptop in another. There's a sofa and a couple of kitchen chairs, too. Porthos makes for the sofa, so Athos follows his lead.

 

“Do you live alone, when Samara isn't here?” Athos asks.

 

“I don't know. I shared with Charon and Flea for a long time, then when I- When Charon and I broke up, he left. Flea stayed for about three years, then... I'm not... it wasn't working, so she went, too. That was a year and a half ago. Samara's doing an artist residency thing over here, so she's been coming and going for the past eight months.”

 

Porthos flops onto the sofa, putting his head back and closing his eyes. He seems a lot more relaxed, and Athos considers, again, leaving. He only came along because he thought Porthos wanted company, and now Porthos's flat mate is here and he has company. Athos stays.

 

“Thank you,” Porthos says. “For not touching.”

 

“Thank you for trusting me.”

 

“I don't... it's not...”

 

“I don't need to know. You asked me not to, that's enough. Are you feeling better?”

 

“Much. I'm probably going to fall asleep here,” Porthos says, yawning again. “Oh, you missed your dancing, and the pub. I'm sorry.”

 

“I'll live.”

 

“You didn't even say bye to anyone.”

 

“I told Aramis I was leaving,” Athos says. Porthos cracks open an eye and looks at him. “I did. I've had to leave in the middle before, it's a short hand, between us.”

 

“Why did you start dancing? Is it something you've always done?”

 

“No. I started with Aramis's beginner class, eight years ago. I thought tango seemed like it might mend a broken heart.”

 

“Huh. Did it?”

 

“I don't know. I can't tell if it was the dancing.”

 

“Oh. Tell me about you? Anything you like.”

 

“You want me to keep talking?” Athos asks, amused. “I'm not a good talker.”

 

“I like your voice,” Porthos admits.

 

“Alright,” Athos says, settling at the other end of the sofa. “Hmm. I don't know what to say. I'm a worse cook than I admitted to tonight, there's something. I once set fire to a toaster trying to make toast.”

 

“At least you didn' set fire to it try'na make eggs,” Porthos mumbles, grinning.

 

“At least there's that, I suppose,” Athos says. “I like my own company, which my friends know. I also like your company, as it turns out. I'm... I'm bizexual. I like ice cream.”

 

“What do you do for a living?”

 

“I write. I'm one of those stuffy academics. I'm currently writing a book about late eighteenth century literature and queerness, how the conjunction of a changing world, changing values, the innovations in literary values and traditions, all come together to produce a very queer set of characters and narratives. It's dull.”

 

“Mm-mm,” Porthos says, turning his head so he's facing Athos and smiling, not opening his eyes.

 

“I write other things, too,” Athos says. “Fiction. Not often. I'm supposedly writing a novel, have been for years, though, and it's not going anywhere fast. I'm no poet, my poetry is awful.”

 

“Samara's a poet,” Porthos whispers. “Writes lovely things. In Arabic and English, and Spanish, and French, and Russian.”

 

“Talented. Where's she from? I can't place her accent.”

 

“London,” Porthos says, guffawing with laughter. “Don't you know, Athos, it's ignorant to ask that? You other her.”

 

“Oh shut up,” Athos grumbles.

 

“Samara's father is Spanish, her mother is Moroccan. She calls herself a Moor. Tell me about your novel? Is it about you?”

 

“Obviously. Everyone's first novel is about them. It's fiction, though. I slay far more dragons in it than I do here.”

 

“Dragons?”

 

“Not really. I was being facetious. I'm writing about soldiers.”

 

“Do they fall in love?”

 

“Of course. They go to war, which turns out to be a lot of marching and doing nothing. It's boring, and long, and very frustrating. They meet. Two men from different armies, both strangers in this town. They're both drawn to this street musician, who plays even when it rains. And they fall in love.”

 

“Sounds wonderful.”

 

“It's ridiculous. There's a bit I'm pretty sure where the notes actually 'melt on the air'. It's ridiculous. I like writing it, though. One day I might even finish.”

 

“Tell me a story about dragons.”

 

“Shall I start with once upon a time?” Athos says, smiling. “Hmm. It wasn't once upon a time, though, it was earlier today. Whenever today is. It's always earlier today.”

 

Porthos hums. Athos stops talking, gathering his thoughts, but he realises he doesn't need them. Porthos is asleep. Athos sits for a while, then gets up and goes through to the living-room to get his shoes. Samara's sat, curled, in one of the chairs, a laptop on the low table beside her.

 

“Is he asleep?” She asks, and he can hear the Spanish, now, in her 'h's and 's's.

 

“Yes. He fell asleep on the sofa.”

 

“He'll be fine there. He sleeps okay there. We only move him if he falls asleep in the kitchen.”

 

“He does that?”

 

Samara shrugs. Athos goes to put his shoes on, then awkwardly wonders if he should say goodbye to her. She comes to open the door, though.

 

“Thank you,” she says. “For bringing him home. He works too hard.”

 

“I can believe that,” Athos says.

 

“I think I will be seeing you again,” Samara says.

 

Athos nods, and then he's out on the balcony again, and she's shutting the door. Athos goes down to his car feeling warm, remembering Porthos sprawled near him, the trust Porthos put in him. He might have found Porthos attractive before, now he's pretty sure there's no hope for him.


	2. Walk

It's a strange week. He finishes the final chapter of his book, which means edits. He has to edit it at least once before sending it to the publishing house. It's apparently already been added to two university syllabi, which is nice, but not actually that surprising. He's a well known critic, and queer theory in literature is a derth of good criticism, especially on specific texts. Athos shuts himself in his office for four days, and doesn't come out until Tuesday evening.

 

“Hello,” Ninon says, sending Athos crashing into the bowl of water she's set out for her dog, and then into the counter top, coming to a halt on the floor.

 

“Hello, Ninon. What are you doing in my kitchen?” Athos asks, rubbing Hawks ears when she pads over to lick his face and see if he's hurt. “I now have a wet sock.”

 

“You've always been a bit of a wet sock, dear. Is the book nearly done?”

 

“Yes. All before the deadline, too.”

 

“Good. I have another project for you. No, it's not teaching. Get off the floor and make me coffee. You're a lousy cook, but your coffee's brilliant.”

 

“What have you got for me?” Athos says, getting up off the floor and glaring dolefully at his agent.

 

She keeps getting him work, and getting the stupid things he writes published, which means he has to actually do work, instead of living off his inheritance and being an unpublished, undiscovered, brilliant writer.

 

“You're going to like this one. It's for fiction. It's also... well, it's a YA book.”

 

“How did you manage that? I've never written a thing for children.”

 

“Now that's just not true. You did that thing, those weird short stories.”

 

“No one published those.”

 

“You did that article about going to university.”

 

“No I didn't. I refused. You gave it to that boring arse, Liniver.”

 

“Liniver is a dear. Always does as she's told. It's not entirely fiction. The age range is twelve to fourteen, and they want a book that's aimed at children who are questioning their gender. You are uniquely placed.”

 

“Uniquely? No I'm not. There are hundreds of trans people. I wish I never told you that.”

 

“You didn't. You forgot to tell me, and wrote about it in something you sent to me.”

 

“I wish I'd never done that, then.”

 

“Come on. You can write about dragons for all they care. They just want something to corner the queer market.”

 

“I don't write for children. I never have.”

 

“Again, not true. You make up stories for my hoards of nieces and nephews all the time. You write them out and send them to them. And I copy them and keep a record. And then use them to show the publisher how good you are at writing. Thank you for the coffee. I'll forward you all the information and schedule a meeting for us to go over contracts and things. Come on, Hawk, off we go.”

 

Ninon leaves in a flurry of activity, and Athos is left with an empty coffee mug and a sense of foreboding. It's not that people don't know about him. He's a writer and he's up front about all of it. Being bi, being trans, Anna. He just isn't sure he can really do it. Fictional characters are really not his strong point. His phone rings.

 

Athos looks around, bewildered. He has no idea where he put his mobile. He must have dumped it somewhere at some point. Last time he remembers having it was two days ago, when he was texting Aramis while making... Athos opens pasta cupboard and finds the phone behind several bags of past.

 

“Hello?” he answers, not recognising the number.

 

“Hi. It's Porthos. I got your number from Aramis, I hope that's okay?”

 

“Yes, I suppose so. Why not?” Athos says, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear and looking for something to eat that won't involve effort. “It's more usual to just ask, but I don't mind.”

 

“Yeah, sorry. I needed to get hold of you.”

 

“Oh?” Athos says, deciding on the bag of kettle chips. He gets humus out of the fridge, then hesitates over whether to add grapes to feel a bit healthy.

 

“Yeah. I have a favour to ask.”

 

“Might as well ask, I'm making no promises. I'm not good at doing things I don't want to do,” Athos says, deciding to be healthy. They're basically wine, anyway. Actually, that's a better idea. If grapes are basically wine, then wine is basically grapes, and is therefore healthy. “Do you think wine counts as one of your five a day?”

 

“No. Not at all, no matter how you look at it,” Porthos says.

 

Spoil sport. Athos takes the wine, anyway, and goes to sit in the living-room.

 

“What's the favour, then?” he asks, curious.

 

“I need a place to stay, on Thursday. In the city. I'm... I have to... I'm seeing Charon, and I'm planning on getting hammered, but I don't want to have to stay at their house. They live near you.”

 

“They?”

 

“Flea and Charon. They're having a baby. I'm not really planning on getting hammered, I just know I'm not going to make it home, and Samara's away, and I don't actually know anyone else. I need an excuse to leave early, and I need a place where I can lie down.”

 

Athos considers it. He's not usually receptive to sharing his space. Especially when he doesn't know the person well. He's not usually very receptive to favours, either. He barely knows Porthos.

 

“Why are you asking me?” Athos says.

 

“I don't know. I-I-I, like I said, I don't actually know anyone. I was going to apologise a lot and explain it all, but I thought I should just ask, like a n-n-n... n-normal person.”

 

“Fair enough. I'm not saying no, but I barely know you.”

 

“I kn-kn-know. Bugger. B-b-bloody stutt-utter.”

 

“I'm not saying no,” Athos says again, more gently.

 

“Okay. I know, I w-wouldn't ask. I shouldn't ask. We could pretend I didn't.”

 

“Why did you?”

 

“I l-like you. I trust you. I wanted to.”

 

The last makes Athos smile. He's really good at telling himself Porthos is off limits, but not quite as good at believing it.

 

“Alright,” Athos says. “You showed me your place, I'll show you mine.”

 

Porthos laughs, which Athos is glad of. That was a dreadful joke.

 

“Are you sure?” Porthos asks.

 

“Do you really need to ask?”

 

“No. You wouldn't have said yes if you minded.”

 

“I've got a spare room, I don't think you're very likely to murder me in my bed. Why not? Thursday, you say?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What time? Oh, I've got a better idea. If you need to escape your ex and Flea, I can come pick you up. The ultimate excuse to leave- some grumpy sod is on the doorstep calling for you.”

 

“No, I mean... you think it'll be fun, don't you? You're going to suggest saying you're my boyfriend, and winding Charon up.”

 

“I was going to suggest nothing of the sort.”

 

“I don't think any of this will be fun.”

 

“I want to call for you. You can tell them what you like, but you said you can't get home. That suggests to me that you could do with being called for.”

 

“I could,” Porthos admits. “Okay. Yeah, okay, that'd be nice. Would you mind if I told them I was seeing you? They always get so... when I'm single, and I see Flea, she's always so guilty.”

 

“Did they cheat on you?”

 

“No! No, nothing like that. I dated Flea, in school, and then Charon. We're just... goin' through the permutations.”

 

Porthos sounds sad, so Athos stops asking questions. They talk for a bit longer, but without a goal in mind, Athos is a bit useless, and eventually they just make arrangements and hang up. Athos doesn't think about it much, as Wednesday and Thursday are caught up with Ninon bothering him about the new project, and edits. He's so caught up that he almost misses his cue to go pick up Porthos. Almost. His phone buzzes and he brushes it aside, reaching for a text book he needs to reference properly (it just says 'that blue one' at the moment).

 

He remembers five minutes later about Porthos and checks his phone, and finds the text. He curses and jumps up, running out of the house without his keys or coat or anything sensible. He runs back in, glad his door doesn't lock automatically, and grabs both. He runs out again, then changes his mind and goes to get the car out.

 

Athos pulls up two minutes later, on a road that's thick with cars. The houses are terrace, uniform, smaller than his own. The gardens here are full of children's toys, and bikes, and the detritus of family life like dog toys and cats. Athos opens the rusty gate of number eighty three and makes his way up the path, taking in the tangled garden, the ginger cat in a stunted tree, the line of bottles set on the step. Beer bottles. Athos rings the bell and waits.

 

“Hello?” the person who answers peers suspiciously at Athos.

 

“I'm Athos,” Athos says, then waits.

 

He's surveyed, then invited into the house with a jerk of the head. Athos decides this must be Charon, as he follows him through a hallway with a beige carpet into a kitchen. There's a big dining room table with people sitting around, drinking coffee or beer, chatting. Porthos is sat next to a woman with braided hair and a narrow, elfin face, a protruding stomach suggesting she's the pregnant Flea. She looks up and smiles at Charon, holding out a hand.

 

“Who is it?” She asks, smiling at Athos.

 

“Athos,” Charon says, shortly. “You're mate, Porthos.”

 

“He's my partner,” Porthos says, quietly, getting up from the table. “I should go. He's giving me a ride home.”

 

“Do you have to?”

 

“Yeah, Flea. Sorry. It was... it was good to see you. I'm really happy for you. For both of you,” Porthos says.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Charon says, pulling Porthos into a hug. “Look after yourself. Or make him do it. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Porthos says, leaning into the hug.

 

“Seriously,” Charon says. “I care about you. I'm glad to be back in touch. Look after yourself, hmm?”

 

“I will. Athos will,” Porthos says, extracting himself. He drops a kiss on Flea's head, then comes over. “Hey.”

 

“Hello,” Athos says. “Ready? Do you have anything?”

 

“My bag's by the door,” Porthos says. “Bye, guys.”

 

The room murmurs a few goodbyes, as Porthos leaves. Athos takes a last glance around, and sees Charon watching the doorway intently, frowning. Athos follows Porthos out, out of the house and into the garden. Porthos doesn't say anything until they get into the car, then he lets out a shaky breath.

 

“I won't touch,” Athos says.

 

“It's alright. I'm okay. I'm just shaky as fuck. You can take me home, if you like.”

 

“No. I said you can stay. Have you eaten?”

 

“No, I probably won't, though, if that's okay. Not really hungry. Feel a little sick.”

 

“That's fine.”

 

Athos drives back around to his house, and shows Porthos into the house. He hesitates, then takes Porthos up to the spare room. Porthos sits on the bed, small rucksack beside him, and Athos hesitates again, wondering if he should leave Porthos alone. Porthos looks small, though, and miserable, and Athos feels sympathy stirring in him.

 

“Do you want to come and sit in the living-room?” Athos offers. “I've got a bit of work to do before I finish up, and I'll be eating something at some point. If you want company, though?”

 

“Yeah, alright.

 

Athos gets his laptop and sets himself up in the armchair. Porthos settles on the sofa, and proves that he has the ability to be quiet. Athos forgets about him. He remembers long enough to offer Porthos a book, pointing out the shelves, then he loses himself in sorting out the edits.

 

When he finishes the chapter he wanders into the kitchen to look through his cupboards and fridge until he finds a casserole Ninon left him at some point. He's making a salad to go with it when Porthos appears in the doorway, looking tentative. Athos starts, then smiles. Porthos looks ill, though. His skin has a grey tint to it, and his eyes have deep shadows under it, and even though his hands are tucked into his sleeves, Athos can see them shaking.

 

“Still not hungry?” Athos asks. Porthos shakes his head. “Would you like something warm to drink? Hot chocolate? Chai? Some kind of awful fruit tea? Warm milk?”

 

“Chai?” Porthos asks, face doing the scrunched confused thing.

 

“Mm. Spicy tea, but not like weak peppermint or something.”

 

“I'm fine, thanks.”

 

“Hmm. Oh, I know. I have cordial. Spiced apple. It's very nice warm.”

 

“Alright,” Porthos says.

 

He sways, and Athos starts forwards, stopping when he remembers Porthos doesn't like to be touched. Porthos makes a quiet noise, though, or pain or distress or something, and Athos moves to stand close, reaching out slowly so Porthos can pull away. Very slowly Athos pulls him into a hug, gently, carefully, letting Porthos know he can get away if he wants. Porthos slumps against him, big body going lax. Athos can feel a fine tremor in him.

 

“Is this alright?” Athos asks.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Thank you.”

 

“Mm. Do you want to... talk? Or something?”

 

“You're not one for that kinda stuff, huh? No. Just, this is nice. This is helpful.”

 

Athos nods and holds Porthos for a while, letting him take whatever comfort he needs from it. Porthos stands straight again, when Athos's dinner starts to smell a little over done. He doesn't apologise. Athos puts the kettle on and makes hot cordial and pours wine for himself, offering Porthos a glass with a tilt of the bottle and getting a refusal in reply. Athos adds casserole to his plate of salad and heads through to the dining room. .

 

“Big place,” Porthos says, sitting at the table.

 

“Not so big,” Athos says, shrugging. “I inherited a fair bit of money from my parents, and a fair bit of property. It was all... cavernous. I bought this, instead. I thought it was quite cosy.”

 

“It is,” Porthos says, smiling and looking around. Athos looks around, too. At the pictures on the wall, framed and carefully hung. At the fireplace, rarely used. At the book shelves. He wonders what Porthos sees.

 

“Do you have bookshelves everywhere? I saw some in the kitchen, too,” Porthos says.

 

“Except the bathroom. Kitchen is just cookbooks.”

 

Porthos nods, getting up with his mug to go and look at the books. Athos eats, watching him. Porthos turns so his back's to Athos, a hand coming up, to run over the spines maybe. That's what Athos would do. No, to cover his face while he cries, Athos realises a second later. He hates crying people. He doesn't know what to do with them. So he pretends he doesn't notice and keeps eating. It seems to work, after a minute Porthos is sniffing and turning back. He has slightly pink eyes.

 

“Do you want watch a film or something?” Athos says. “I've still got some work to do.”

 

Porthos shrugs, wandering to the other end of the room, to the window. There's a padded seat on the sill, running the length. There used to be cushions, but Athos has no idea where they ended up. The window looks out on the garden, which he hasn't done anything with in years. Porthos sits, one leg curled under him, mug cradled in his hands, and looks out.

 

Athos likes the quiet, likes that there's not a pressure to provide endless dull conversation. He finishes eating and sits back, not thinking about anything, enjoying the quiet and the company. He's distracted from his contentedness by Porthos making a small sound. Athos looks at him and realises he's crying again, face pressed into his hand. Athos sighs.

 

“Would you like me to leave you alone?” Athos asks, but Porthos shakes his head. Athos looks around for inspiration, and his gaze settles on the picture Aramis gave him, painted by some local person whose name Athos never learnt. It's a picture of two people embracing. Athos considers that. “Would you like... a hug?”

 

Porthos goes very still, then nods, hesitant. Athos goes over and stands awkwardly for a moment, wondering how to go about it. He decides taking Porthos's mug is the first step. He's surprised to find it empty, but he puts it aside anyway. Then he opens his arms and lets Porthos work out the logistics. Porthos leans into Athos's body from where he's sitting, turning his head to press into Athos's ribs and stomach, arm wrapping around his waist. Athos tries to wrap his arms around Porthos's shoulders, but he mostly gets his head. Porthos doesn't seem to mind.

 

“I'm sorry,” Porthos whispers. “I didn't mean to do this.”

 

“It must be hard, to see them?”

 

“I haven't seen Charon in so long. I'd forgotten. I've known 'im all my life. He looked after me, and I looked after him. I thought... forever. He's happy, he's starting a family, and I'm still broke, miserable, fucked up. I barely manage a week without having to call in sick, you know? I can only get work on short-term projects, because everyone knows I'm not... not... reliable. Samara was offered free accommodation, but she turned them down and pays half my rent and bills, because she knows I w-was't managing.”

 

“Oh, Porthos. I'm sorry,” Athos says, feeling helpless. “I know the feeling. I've never had to work, which is very lucky because I couldn't. For a long time. I'm not a writer because it's my hobby or my passion or whatever, I'm a writer because it was something I could manage.”

 

“I shouldn't have come here, tonight.”

 

“Of course you should have. I said I barely knew you, but it's not true. You're my friend, Porthos. I'm your friend. Friends do this. Right? Don't they?”

 

“I don't really know. I don't... I'm an outgoing person. Enthusiastic, friendly, easy going. I get along with most people. I just can't, at the moment. So, just Samara. And Flea, and Charon, I guess.”

 

“You know, you might feel better if you ate something.”

 

“I know. I just feel sick, though. It's... it's the family thing. The way their house is. The way they are. The parents thing.”

 

“You still don't have to tell me.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Come through to the living-room. I'll light a fire, and you can curl up on the sofa while I work. How about that?”

 

Porthos nods, and Athos gets him a blanket and a pillow, after lighting the fire. It's companionable, having someone else in the room while he works. He's doing exercises Ninon sent him, supposedly in preparation for his project. World building and character building sheets, little 'write a paragraph on this' thing, prompts and bits of dialogue. Challenges to create dialogue that shows the character. It's like homework, but it's much better than actually trying to write anything for the project, so he does them all.

 

When he next looks up, Porthos is asleep. Athos has slept on that sofa before, and though he's much shorter and smaller in general than Porthos, he thinks Porthos will be fine. He puts the solid grate over the fire so no sparks fly out to catch fire to the carpet, then heads to bed, leaving a lamp and the bathroom light on. He sleeps surprisingly well- usually when someone else is in his house he's hyper aware and dozes, close to the surface. Porthos is safe, though, somehow.

 

Porthos is still asleep when Athos gets up. Athos leaves him a note and leaves breakfast things out on the counter in case he wakes up hungry, then goes for his usual run. He's not really a runner, but it's a habit he got into when he was transitioning and needed some kind of semblance of control over his body. He likes the way it makes him look. Compact and strong. Masculine. He's still got a skinny waist, but he likes it, now.

 

When he gets in Porthos is singing. Athos smiles, tilting his head to listen. It's a slow, soft thing, a lullaby, voice rich and mellow, in tune. Slow and low and loving. Athos follows it through to the kitchen and finds Porthos, in his pants and that threadbare sweatshirt, swaying along to his singing at the stove. It smells like pancakes, and Athos realises that's because Porthos is making pancakes. He realises this when Porthos flips it, his breath catching as it spins in the air. It doesn't fall. Porthos slides it into the oven a minute later, and ladles another one into the pan, scattering blueberries in.

 

“Morning,” Athos says.

 

“Good morning. Admirin' the view? Clean boxers, I swear. All hygenic.”

 

“Why are you trouser-less?”

 

“Shimmied out of 'em in the night,” Porthos says, shrugging, turning. He smiles widely when he sees Athos. “You look like you've worked up an appetite. I took the liberty of making you American pancakes.”

 

“So I see. I didn't know I had blueberries?”

 

“You didn't. I walked to the co-op.”

 

“In your pants?” Athos asks. Porthos looks shifty, then laughs and shakes his head. “So, you got up, got dressed, went to the shop, came back and got un -dressed to make breakfast?”

 

“It's rainin',” Porthos says. “I may have stepped in a puddle.”

 

Athos laughs. He doesn't mind, not at all. Porthos is right- he was admiring the view. Porthos smiles back at him, and Athos feels relief flood him when it's the usual, self assured, confident one. Porthos seems much better all around, actually. He looks well rested and steady.

 

“I'll go shower and get changed, then,” Athos says. “Did you put the coffee on?”

 

“Not touching that, it looks like a spaceship. I'd probably accidentally make granola or somethin'.”

 

“It doesn't do granola.”

 

Athos leaves Porthos to his bewildered examination of the coffee machine and goes to shower. When he gets back to the kitchen Porthos is wearing trousers. There's a huge pile of pancakes on the table, under a dish-cloth, and a pot of coffee.

 

“You managed the spaceship, then. Welcome to NASA,” Athos says, taking a seat.

 

“There's an instruction manual on your cookbook shelf,” Porthos says, sitting as well, after dropping a punnet of blueberries and a one of strawberries on the table.

 

There's also maple syrup, which Athos knows he didn't have. And lemon and sugar, right on the other side, at the edge, far away from Athos's reach. Athos laughs, pointing questioningly to it.

 

“It's not right for these kinds of pancakes, but people sometimes insist,” Porthos says.

 

Athos helps himself to a pancake. He eats it, but becomes aware of Porthos's disapproving look. When he's finished, he slides his plate to Porthos.

 

“You do it,” Athos says. “Show me the right way to eat them, then.”

 

Porthos nods, and makes Athos a stack, butter and maple syrup between each layer. He makes it pretty with a display of strawberry and blueberry on top, then slides it back with a flourish.

 

“An' next you can have a fruity stack,” Porthos says.

 

Athos, amused, watches Porthos make himself a similar stack. Porthos eats with enthusiasm, and Athos remembers he must be starving. He's polite about it, and uses his napkin (where he dug cloth napkins out Athos has no idea). Porthos gives him a questioning look, noticing he's watching.

 

“Just making sure I do it right,” Athos says.

 

Porthos does his giggling thing, eyes squinching closed in his mirth. Athos ducks his head and focuses on his pancake, banishing words like 'sweet' and 'cute' from his his head. He helps himself to coffee, too. By the time he's done, with his fruity stack as well (pancakes with blueberries and strawberries cooked in the batter), he's stuffed to bursting.

 

“That was good,” Athos says, sitting back. “You can cook?”

 

“Mm. My Mum taught me,” Porthos says. “You have a dining room, and a table in here?”

 

“I usually eat dinner in the dining room, and lunch if there are people here. Old habits are hard to break. I like to have breakfast in here, because it catches the morning sun.”

 

Porthos peers out at the grey day and grins, eyebrows raised. Athos flaps at him and helps himself to the last of the coffee. They sit for a while, drinking their coffee, not talking. It's nice.

 

“PTSD,” Porthos says, when he's finished his coffee. “That's what the doc says.”

 

“Mm?” Athos says. He hopes the sound is encouraging.

 

“You must know a bit, being a soldier. I don't have many flashbacks anymore, but the rest. Broken sleep, reactions that seem out of place, random flashes of emotion. The worst is... I'm pretty tactile. But I can't touch people, because then they'll notice I'm tactile, and take it as an open invitation to touch.”

 

“I know,” Athos says, quietly. “As a child I loved that kind of thing. My parents weren't demonstrative, and that was hard for me. My brother was. And my... my partner. Later.”

 

“The heartbreaker?”

 

“Yes. Anna. When I... for a while, I wasn't happy with people touching me, and I did all this... all these barriers, you know? And I can't get them down, now.”

 

“Anna. Not...?”

 

“Hmm? Oh. Anne and Louis? No, not her.”

 

“You have a brother?”

 

“Thomas.”

 

Athos hasn't seen him in a few years. Porthos takes the hint and doesn't ask anything further. They're a little awkward with one another while they clear up, aware of what they've shared.

 

“Do you have to work?” Athos asks, drying the last of the dishes.

 

“No. My contract is up. I'm taking a week off, before finding something new. I have to think about what to do when Samara goes back to Morocco, sort out what this job will pay for, what I need to cover.”

 

“I know this is going to probably piss you off, but I told you I have an inheritance. I have a lot of money. I-”

 

“No. Please don't,” Porthos says, going tense all over.

 

“If you wanted to do something specific, I would be happy to sponsor you. I do it sometimes, for kids who are interested when I go talk in schools. I did a lecture series at university and met two bright, trans kids, and I sponsored them for the rest of their education. It makes a difference, not to worry about money. What I mean is, it's something I do, a formal agreement.”

 

“I'm not a kid. Nor am I in education.”

 

Athos shrugs and finishes putting things away, self-conscious. He said 'trans' out loud. He wonders if Porthos will pick up on anything. Wonders if he'll guess. Athos could just tell him, but it sounds so silly when he says it out loud. He's only ever told Aramis, post-transition. It's never seemed to matter much, outside of his writing. In the real world, as Thomas calls it.

 

“Would you like to do something, this morning?” Athos offers. “I have to work after lunch, but I wasn't planning on doing anything until at least one.”

 

“What did you have in mind?”

 

Athos shrugs, then suggests a walk. Porthos looks tempted, but eventually decides not, so Athos offers to drive him home. Porthos says no to that, as well. His bike's apparently at the construction site, and the walk will clear his head. Athos offers to join him, but Porthos tells him he doesn't have to, and Athos takes the hint.

 

He expects Porthos to not show up that night, but Porthos is there. Athos stands close to Constance, and when they're told to pair up, he takes her arm and tucks it into his own. It gets him a glare from d'Artagnan and a curious look from Constance, but she nods, and d'Artagnan goes off grumbling to dance with Patrick.

 

“What's this?” Constance asks, quietly.

 

“Just a break,” Athos says.

 

Constance nods, giving his arm a squeeze, and Athos relaxes. He's known Constance for years, knew her before they started this dance thing, knew her during the Anne years. She's always been willing to push him, support him, and leave him alone. She seems to know exactly which he needs at any moment. He feels ridiculous tears sting his eyes, but he manages to push them away. Constance notices them anyway.

 

They dance close, ignoring half of what Aramis tells them to do and just doing the easy bits. Aramis is doing some of the sequences from the performance piece he's roped half of them into, so Athos feels no guilt at all in messing up. Constance is good enough to not need the extra practice, and he's not in it. He glances across at Porthos once. Porthos is dancing with Aramis, head up, shoulders back, eyes clear, smiling. He looks good, and he's beginning to get the steps without staring at his feet. Athos sighs.

 

“You like him, don't you?” Constance says.

 

“Hmph,” Athos says.

 

“He's very lovely,” Constance says. “He's not very good at the steps, but he moves beautifully, doesn't he?”

 

“He's getting better,” Athos defends, and is at once irritated with himself.

 

“Doesn't he like you back?” Constance says. “Did you ask him? Is that what this is? He said no and you need a break?”

 

“No,” Athos says. “Leave me alone.”

 

“Never.”

 

She doesn't ask any more questions, though, and when Aramis tells them to switch partners, she keeps hold of Athos and glares when Aramis comes their way. Athos changes his shoes quickly and weighs up whether to go to the pub or not. He wants a drink. He's got wine at home, but he's not sure drinking alone is a good idea tonight.

 

Porthos heads his way, smiling. Athos waves, then takes off, deciding drinking at home is a much better idea. He mutters something about needing an early night and calls a general goodbye, then ducks out and jogs down the steps. He strides down the road, then pauses at the corner and glances back. Porthos is stood on the pavement, staring after him, Constance trying to draw him the other direction towards the pub. Athos turns away again.

 

He buries himself in work. He gets the edits done and the manuscript sent off and starts in on the fiction thing. He credits Ninon with a sneaky intelligence. She's given him so many things to write, that he's got used to the universe and the characters and their stories. He has a pretty good idea of who he's going to write about and where he's going to set it. He writes out a basic plot idea and sends it off to Ninon.

 

Athos spends the week fleshing it out into chapter summaries. He's done all this before, for his secret pet-project, his disaster of a novel. This time, though, he's much more formulaic about it and gets all his ideas lined up before he gets going. He writes long, boring back-stories for his characters, makes A3 sketches of the main players and writes key facts out for each, pinning them up around his office. He examines them each day.

 

“They're all white,” Ninon tells him, when she comes and looks.

 

“No they're not,” Athos says, and points out the character he's been ignoring.

 

He's a tall, well built teenager with big hands and kind eyes and he has skin that's the same colour as Porthos's. Athos ignores him all the time. He especially ignored him when he missed the dance

 

lesson. Ninon shrugs, then wanders off with Hawk to the garden. Athos leaves her to it and colours one of his protagonist's darker.

 

Next he immerses himself in their world. He makes floor plans for the school and their houses and even the garden shed and greenhouse. He writes out all the locations and spends time deciding what is where. He carefully places a couple of Chekhov's guns and erases a few things that have no reason for being there. He decides what kind of meals they eat at home, what snacks they have, writes out shopping lists and budgets.

 

By the time the second week has rolled around, his office is plastered with lists and pictures and floor-plans. Ninon looks entirely freaked out when she comes over on Monday, and when she returns on Wednesday she gives him a ball of red string and come pins. Athos takes the point and starts actually writing.

 

It's a hard book to write. Athos doesn't think much about transitioning, about what lead him there, about the choices he made to end up in a place he could transition from. He has to go back over it, though, to write about it. He does two chapters, then drinks two bottles of wine and rings up several local support groups. He's going to need to do research for this.

 

Athos spends a week drunk. On Friday he decides he should leave the house, so he drinks through the morning, then staggers to the dance studio. Aramis takes one look at him and tows him through to the tiny office. Athos sits at the computer and plays solitaire until Aramis lets him out. It's not Aramis who comes and gets him, though, it's Constance. She looks sad when she sees him.

 

“Hello,” Athos says.

 

“I wondered if you were alright, when I didn't hear anything from you. I knew I should have followed up,” Constance says, coming to stroke his hair and hug him.

 

“I'm fine. I'm writing a book,” Athos tells her.

 

“I'm going to take you home,” Constance says.

 

“I don't want to go back to the house yet,” Athos says, feeling a swell of desperation.

 

He hadn't realised how much he was drowning there, with his wine and his four walls. He feels like he's going mad.

 

“My home, you dummy. We have to go through the studio, though, and Porthos is out there,” Constance says.

 

Athos shrugs. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about a thing in the world. He gets up and walks out,

 

head held high in dignity. He makes it halfway across the room before Porthos appears in front of him, mouth opening to say something. Constance appears though, fire-y and fierce, glaring until Porthos steps aside. Athos continues his route to the door. He contemplates the stairs, then sits down and bumps down them one at a time. Much safer. He hits the street and it's really cold.

 

“Your coat,” Constance says, running out after him. “Idiot. Here. It's November, you'll freeze if you don't put it on. I didn't bring the car, so we're walking.”

 

Athos puts his coat on, doing the zip with a little difficulty. Porthos comes out, before he manages to get it all the way done up, eyes going right to Athos. Athos freezes and tries to avoid his stare.

 

“Why did you yell at me?” Porthos says. “What did I do? Athos, are you alright?”

 

“You yelled at him?” Athos asks, turning to Constance.

 

“Maybe,” Constance says, cheeks flushing. “He should have been nicer to you. Look at yourself.”

 

“He didn't do this,” Athos says, lips finding a strange smile.

 

Constance looks embarrassed, then her mouth firms.

 

“Well how was I meant to know that? Last time I saw you, you were mooning about him, and now you're soaked in wine and miserable! Usually one plus one equals two. I should've known with you it'd be more like one plus one equals alligator.”

 

Athos laughs so hard he nearly falls over, but Porthos catches him. Athos pats Porthos's lovely chest.

 

“I'm not mad at you,” Athos assures. “I'm alright.”

 

“Okay,” Porthos says. “Only, I don't believe you. You look like you haven't eaten or slept.”

 

“Eaten loooots of grapes,” Athos says.

 

“I already said wine doesn't count as grapes,” Porthos says.

 

“Why didn't you want to do things with me?” Athos says. “Why don't you like me?”

 

Porthos goes still. Athos looks up, wondering if he's angry, but Porthos just looks confused. Porthos

 

looks down at him, pushing him away a bit, holding his head by the neck and keeping him steady so he has no choice but to meet Porthos's eyes.

 

“I do like you,” Porthos says. “Why would you think otherwise?”

 

“You don't want to do things with me, and you only flirt with Alice,” Athos says, frowning, trying to remember the other reasons. “And I have too much money,” he remembers. “And I'm short. And I drink too much wine. And I'm a snob about wine. And I'm a snob about... about... something. And I'm short. And you don't want to do things with me.”

 

“That's a lot of things,” Porthos says, blinking.

 

“Yeah,” Athos sighs sadly, blinking back.

 

“You're very drunk. I don't know what to say to most 'a these. I don't even know what half 'a them mean,” Porthos says. “But, I do like you. I didn't flirt with you because...”

 

Porthos flushes, red darkening his skin. It's beautiful. Athos reaches up to touch his cheek, feel the heat there. Porthos smiles.

 

“I didn't flirt with you because you're a bloke, Athos. I know dancin' is pretty gay, but I work in construction. Being open about fancying a bloke doesn't end well, nine times out of ten. It's habit to be more careful.”

 

“But why flirt with Alice?” Athos says. It comes out as a wail, and Porthos looks around and shushes him, so Athos says it again, softer. “Why flirt with anyone?”

 

“Because I liked her, I thought she was nice,” Porthos says, shrugging. “She was interested, and kind. I only flirted with her those first two times, then I realised I liked you. A lot. So I stopped, and told her, and she laughed at me and told me I was lovely and that she'd just have to make do being friends with me.”

 

“Oh,” Athos says.

 

“I would have asked you out, but you...” Porthos hesitates, then, letting go of Athos's head to cup his face instead. “You. You happened. Your stupid little sarcastic jokes about people, the way you smiled at me when you saw me, your grumpy kindness. I liked you, I really liked you. I was pleased that you were befriending me.”

 

“So why didn't you ask me out?”

 

“Well, you didn't ask me out. You were always just friendly. I had a crisis of confidence. I didn't want to risk asking you. I saw you at the end of a work day, at the end of a week, and work, for me, is full of homophobic jokes, racist jokes, stupid nicknames. They called me 'gay Obama', because I wore a pink hi-vis on the first day, the only thing that they had at the time. Friday night wasn't exactly the time I was in the best headspace for wondering what if. If I asked you and you thought like them. If I asked you and you said no and stopped talking to me, like they would. If I asked you and you laughed, like they might.”

 

“Your work sucks more than mine does,” Athos says.

 

They stand in silence. Then Athos smiles. Porthos likes him. Porthos was going to ask him out, before he lost his nerve. Porthos likes him. Athos kisses Porthos.

 

“Oh, for-” Constance mutters. “I'm going to go look in the window of the hairdressers.”

 

Porthos pulls away, and Athos glares, at Constance but he's still looking at Porthos. Porthos grins at him, so Athos tries to kiss him again. Porthos stops him.

 

“Whoa,” Porthos says, gently, ducking his head. “Slow down, Athos. You're really drunk, and I think we have more to talk about before we do this. That was a long list of reasons, we only addressed one.”

 

“Oh,” Athos says, feeling crestfallen.

 

“I promise you, I like you and I want this, I do. But I need to go in eyes open, and so do you. I need to tell you some things, if we're going to do this. And before all of that, you need to go with Constance and sober up, and deal with whatever set this off. I'll... I'll come visit you Sunday, yeah? I'll come over after lunch, and we can talk a bit, and work it out.”

 

“Alright,” Athos grumbles. “I'd rather just kiss you.”

 

“You do seem the type,” Porthos says.

 

“Hey!”

 

“Oh, I got it wrong, did I?” Porthos says, and he sounds too amused. “You're not the type of person to push things away until they explode? To not talk about anything if it can be avoided in any way?”

 

“Not at all,” Athos says, with dignity.

 

Porthos laughs, then shuts his eyes and shakes his head and then kisses Athos. It's much better than

 

Athos kissing Porthos. Porthos is a very good kisser. He holds Athos's head and tangles a hand in his hair and is warm and big and the kisses come with a hug and go on forever. Porthos pulls back eventually, though.

 

“I'll see you on Sunday,” he says, smiling, then dashes away, back up into the studio.

 

Athos stares after him until Constance draws him away, towards her house.

 


	3. Tan

Athos sets the dining room table with his best cutlery and crockery on Sunday. Then he remembers that Porthos said after lunch, and starts to un-set it again. He gets distracted by the mess in the kitchen and starts tidying and cleaning, ending up vacuuming the whole house. He makes himself a sandwich, then changes his mind and decides to make lunch, in case Porthos is hungry. He goes to the shop and gets nice bread and more cheese. He sees grapes on offer and adds them to the basket, too, and some olives. Then he decides to get crisps and some soup, as well, and somehow he ends up with three carrier bags of food. He looks at it all, a little bewildered.

 

Athos decides that soup is the way to go. It's something that will keep if it turns out Porthos doens't want to eat, and it's something he can easily lie about. He'll just say he dumped the whole carton in, because who keeps half a carton of soup? Athos's brain unhelpfully whispers that perhaps sane people keep half a carton of soup. Athos ignores his brain. He sets out bread and things in the dining room and then firmly shuts the door. He'll face all that later.

 

Porthos turns up about two o'clock. Athos has heated and re-heated the soup twice, finally getting himself a bowlful just as the doorbell goes. He leaves it on the side and goes to open the front door, feeling entirely frazzled. He must look it, because Porthos gives him a narrow eyed look and then hugs him. Athos melts a little, tension draining out of him. Porthos is a good hugger.

 

“Hello,” Porthos says, sounding amused.

 

“You're always laughing at me,” Athos complains, wriggling to get out of Porthos's arms.

 

“Not at you,” Porthos says. “And not laughing. Have you looked in a mirror, though?”

 

“No. Why?”

 

“Your hair,” Porthos says, grinning, reaching out to touch said-hair, smoothing. “It's all static-y an' stickin' out weird. You look a bit frantic.”

 

Athos clears his throat, then turns on his heel and leads Porthos through to the dining room, flinging open the door and gesturing, showing Porthos just how frantic he is. Porthos peers in, wary, then

 

looks at Athos with bafflement.

 

“Are you having a dinner party?” Porthos asks, when Athos doesn't say anything.

 

“No. I forgot you said after lunch, and set the table, and then I went to get food in case you were hungry and... that happened.”

 

“All on it's own, eh?” Porthos says, definitely biting back amusement.

 

“Laughing at me,” Athos says, stalking to the kitchen to get his soup.

 

He's really hungry now, so he leans against the counter and eats there. Porthos joins him, wandering over to the window seat. He looks good. Athos watches him, slurping his soup up.

 

“I haven't eaten,” Porthos says. “If you want to invite me to lunch, I'll say yes. It was thoughtful of you. I promise not to laugh.”

 

“Go on,” Athos says, putting his bowl down. “Laugh. It's ridiculous, I can see the funny side.”

 

“Were you nervous?” Porthos asks, getting up and poking about the soup, sniffing it.

 

“Help yourself,” Athos says, handing Porthos a bowl. “And, obviously I was nervous. Did you see the dining room?”

 

“Mm. This smells good. Can we eat in the dining room? Or is it shut up for shame?” Porthos asks.

 

Athos gestures, helpless in the face of Porthos's good temper and hunger. Porthos beams at him. Athos watches, in the dining room, as Porthos piles a plate with food and tucks in, eating with as much enthusiasm as the previous times Athos has witnessed it. Athos is beginning to wonder if Porthos is just that enthusiastic about food, or if he just forgets to feed himself until he's starving. Athos decides the former.

 

“Not hungry?” Porthos asks, helping himself to a second helping of the potato salad Athos has no memory of purchasing.

 

“I'm good,” Athos says.

 

Porthos nods. Athos, it turns out, while grossly over-estimated a normal amount of lunch foods, has estimated Porthos's lunch needs almost exactly. Porthos apologises when he's done, surveying the empty packets and bowls and plates, but he doesn't sound very sorry. He seems content to not talk

 

about things, which Athos is glad of. Talking about things is not Athos's favourite activity, and he's enjoying Porthos's company. Eventually, though, it comes to an end.

 

“I don't know how to do this, Athos,” Porthos says, quietly, about an hour after lunch when they still haven't got around to the right subject. “You're clearly not comfortable talking about things, but I need to. I don't want to.. t-t-to...”

 

“Let's do this in the living-room,” Athos says, feeling terrible that he's made Porthos stutter. “Relax. I'm not completely incompetent. We'll muddle through. Do you want some wine? Or coffee?”

 

“Wouldn't mind a small glass of wine, actually. I'm not supposed to, but,” Porthos shrugs. “Want some help clearing up?”

 

“No, no. I'll do it later. Go on through, I'll get the wine and join you in a minute.”

 

Porthos goes, and Athos detours to the kitchen for a bottle of red and two glasses. He takes it through and pours Porthos a half measure, hesitating before filling his own all the way. He's going to need it if this conversation is going to go in the direction he thinks.

 

“You said you needed to tell me something,” Athos says. “To go in eyes open. Why don't we start with that?”

 

“I don't know what I was thinking of, really,” Porthos says, sipping his wine. “There are things you should know, about the PTSD. I don't know... it sounds... I might, if we have sex, I might leave in the middle and just not get in touch for a few days. It's quite emotional, sex, for me. Sometimes. With someone I like. I don't always deal well.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Actually, what I really need to tell you... I don't want to hurt you. I lash out, sometimes. When I'm touched. We can agree that you'll not touch when I ask as much as we like, but sometimes... sometimes I'll say it's okay, and we'll be hugging, or you'll be touching me, or whatever, and suddenly it won't be alright. At all. If that happens, I need you to leave. No matter how distressed or upset I seem, I need you to just leave the house. I'll give you keys to my place, in case it happens here, so you have somewhere to go.”

 

“I..” Athos says, then stops, unsure what to say. He wants to reach out and comfort Porthos, but that doesn't feel like the right thing to do.

 

“I've hurt people, in the past. You'll know what I mean when it happens. I just sometimes am not sure where I am or who I'm with, or I'll have a flashback, or something will just snap, and I lash out, like I said. I'm a big guy, and I'm not a weakling. I know how to fight, dirty street fighting. I don't want to hurt you.”

 

“Alright. I'll know?”

 

“Yeah. You'll be able to tell.”

 

“Does it happen often?”

 

“No. Not at all. If I'm under a lot of stress I get less good at knowing my limits, when I need people to back off, but... It's happened twice, in the past year. That's it.”

 

“I can do that,” Athos decides, nodding his head. He thinks about it carefully, considers what Porthos is asking of him. “Yes. That's alright with me.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Are you alright for me to touch you now?”

 

Porthos nods, and goes gratefully when Athos offers a hug, pressing his face to Athos's shoulder. Athos takes Porthos's wine glass and sets it on the table. Then, when Porthos seems to be in no hurry to pull back, Athos put one leg up on the sofa and turns, so Porthos can sit between his legs and lean on his chest.

 

“That must have been hard to say,” Athos says.

 

“It's got easier. I have to have similar conversations with my bosses, sometimes.”

 

“Am I allowed to ask you out, now?” Athos says.

 

Porthos sighs, leaning back into Athos's body, resting his head back on Athos's shoulder, a contented smile settling over his features.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Ask away.”

 

“Will you go out with me, Porthos?” Athos asks.

 

“Yeah. I'd like that. Especially if you feed me like this every time I come for lunch.”

 

Porthos is teasing, Athos can tell, the amusement bubbling under the surface. It's at his own expense as much as Athos's, this time. Athos moves so they can kiss, raising Porthos's jaw with his hand,cradling his cheek as they kiss.

 

“You're better at this sober,” Porthos murmurs, eyes sliding closed. “You taste like wine.”

 

“Mm,” Athos agrees, kissing him again.

 

The kiss for a while, talking quietly, and then go back to their wine. Porthos stays in Athos's arms most of the evening, only moving to take a leak or go to the kitchen for some water. Aramis calls to talk about five thirty, and Porthos dozes off while Athos listens to Aramis worrying about the upcoming performance.

 

“Oh, bugger,” Athos says, when he's been contemplating Porthos's sleeping face for a while.

 

“What?” Aramis asks. “Did you leave the bath running?”

 

“No. I just forgot to mention something to Porthos. I'm dating him. I asked him out and everything.”

 

“Congratulations.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“What did you forget to mention? That you're as grumpy as the day is long? That you sulk with the skill of a four year old? That when drunk you get incredibly cuddly, then increasingly grouchy and silent?”

 

“That I'm trans,” Athos says.

 

“Oh. That one. Huh,” Aramis says, then pauses for a long moment. Athos waits. “Oh well, I shouldn't worry. It'll come up at some point.”

 

“Shouldn't I warn him? Tell him up front?”

 

“Should you? Nah. Heternormative, isn't it? To assume everyone is cis? Other people's prejudices do not mean you have to disclose anything you're not comfortable talking about. You're a private person. It'll come up when it comes up. If he reacts badly, he wasn't worth it. And I'll kick him out of the class. I'd offer to beat him up, but I have a feeling he'd win. I could shoot him for you, though, that's not a close contact thing. I could totally do that.”

 

“Shut up,” Athos says.

 

Porthos is deeply asleep by the time Athos gets off the phone. He's snoring lightly, into Athos's collar bone, curled close. Athos feels a thrill of arousal, but pushes it away for now. He puts the TV on and works his way through the rest of the bottle of wine to the accompaniment of 'Lewis' reruns.

 

Athos is perfectly content, even when the wine runs out. He enjoys the weight of Porthos slowly putting his limbs to sleep. He enjoys the snoring and the feel of Porthos's breath. Enjoys the intimacy of it. It's been a long time since he's allowed himself this kind of intimacy, this level of physical affection, and even longer since he's done it sober. He changes the TV channel twice, but leaves it on a cooking show, letting his own eyes rest.

 

He wakes to a dark room and no Porthos. He's covered by a blanket, and he can hear movement in another part of the house, so he dozes for a bit, comfortable and happy where he is. He identifies sounds as kitchen sounds, and his curiosity slowly gets the better of him until he gets up and wanders through. Porthos is stood by the stove, a cookery book propped open, singing to himself around a mouthful of something.

 

“Hey,” Athos says, leaning in the doorway, smiling.

 

“Shit!” Porthos says, spinning, hitting the counter and bouncing off.

 

“Sorry,” Athos says, straightening, holding up his hands. “Sorry. I didn't mean to make you jump.”

 

“No, no. You're good,” Porthos says, pressing a hand to his chest, grinning. “I'm good. Just didn't realise you were there. Bloody hell, come feel my heart!”

 

Athos steps forward and Porthos grabs his hand, guiding it until Athos presses it over Porthos's chest. He can feel the beat beneath his fingers, his palm. It's thudding against Porthos's chest, like a caught bird. Athos presses, smiling, and Porthos's heartbeat speeds up. Athos looks up. Porthos captures his lips, pulling him into a harsh kiss, Porthos taking. Athos reaches with his free hand and pulls Porthos's head closer, going up on his toes so they're of a hight, taking right back.

 

Porthos's back hits the counter and he grunts into Athos's mouth. Athos jerks Porthos's head close, pressing them body to body all the way along, kissing him, hand still pressed over Porthos's heart.

 

“God,” Porthos says, voice cracking. “God. Athos.”

 

“Shh,” Athos soothes, taking Porthos's lip between his teeth and tugging until Porthos kisses him again.

 

“Dinner,” Porthos says, pulling back. “I'm cooking for you.”

 

“Kiss me,” Athos says. “Come on.”

 

Porthos does, but gentler. His heart's slowing under Athos's hand. Purposefully, Athos would guess. He sighs, but lets Porthos slow them, soothe them, pulling back until they're in their own space again. They stare at one another, breathless.

 

“I...” Porthos says, touching his lips. “You.”

 

“Yes,” Athos agrees. “Very much so.”

 

“Not tonight,” Porthos pleads. “It's too fast.”

 

“As slow as you like,” Athos agrees, taking another step back. “As slow as you want.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“What are you cooking?”

 

“Oh, um. Risotto. From your book.”

 

Athos takes a look. The recipe's in Italian, from a book he picked up years ago, probably with Anna. He looks at Porthos, surprised.

 

“Oh, I can't read it,” Porthos says, shrugging. “Just familiar with most 'a the ingredients, and with a bit of google translating, I muddled through. I know how to make a risotto, not much difference. Do you speak Italian?”

 

“A bit. I have more French than Italian.”

 

“My Ma-Mum spoke French,” Porthos says, frowning, turning away to look at the pan he's got on the stove. “French, and Creole. Haitian Creole.”

 

“Didn't pick any of it up?”

 

“A little,” Porthos says, shrugging, shaking himself. “Only had 'er a couple of years. I miss the way she sounded, you know? No one talks like her.”

 

“I wouldn't know about that,” Athos says. “My own mother left much to be desired.”

 

“Mine was amazing,” Porthos says, softly. “Smart, like. Resourceful. Taught me a lot, before... before she died.”

 

“Oh, Porthos, I'm sorry.”

 

“I don't have a tragic backstory or nothing. You'd expect it, from PTSD, right? Tragic back story. Maybe a care kid who got the snot kicked out of him, something like that? That's what you surmised, right?”

 

“I hadn't drawn any conclusion as yet,” Athos says.

 

“I was in care. For a bit. Stupid. This is stupid, I shouldn't'a started this, I'm sorry. I'll stop. Just, give me a minute, yeah?”

 

“Whatever you need.”

 

“Damn it. I need... I don't know. Dunno what I need,” Porthos says, leaning on the counter, breath coming fast.

 

“Are you having a panic attack?”

 

“No. Don't think so. Can you watch the pan? It should be fine. If it starts burning just take it off the heat. I'm going to go outside for a minute, okay?”

 

“Yes, go ahead,” Athos says, going over to unlock and open the back door.

 

Porthos wanders out. Athos watches from the window, watches Porthos lean on the wall, slowly gather himself. He keeps an eye on their dinner, too. He's over at the stove, poking at it, when Porthos comes back in.

 

“Sorry,” Porthos says, plastering himself over Athos's back, kissing his neck and around his jaw. “Don't like talking about my Mum much.”

 

“Alright,” Athos says, easily. There are a lot of things he doesn't like talking about. Thomas, Anna, his parents.

 

“I just steam rolled over you. You were telling me about your mother, and I ignored it. I'm sorry she wasn't great.”

 

“It's fine. I don't talk about her much. Like you. Do you think this is done? I poked it.”

 

“You did, huh?” Porthos asks, amused again.

 

“Yes,” Athos says.

 

Porthos laughs, breath hot on Athos's skin, though his hands feel a bit cold. Athos turns in his arms, bringing a hand up to touch his cheek, thumb over his jaw, his cheek bone.

 

“Are you alright?” Athos asks.

 

“Yeah. Sorry about that. Weird emotional moment took me by surprise.”

 

“Hmm,” Athos hums, leaning in to kiss Porthos, sucking at his lip a little.

 

“Dinner,” Porthos says, with a groan. “Before I give in to this.”

 

“And fling me over your shoulder? Take me like a cave man?” Athos says.

 

Porthos laughs, burying his face in Athos's shoulder and shaking his head. Athos wraps his arms around Porthos's broad back and must catch a ticklish spot. Porthos's laughs turn to giggles and he squirms, further into Athos's arms. They do get around to eating. The risotto's a bit cold and gluey, by then, but still good. Athos drives Porthos home, afterwards, and they kiss again in the car, before Porthos gets out and jogs inside.

 

Porthos texts Athos on Tuesday to invite him out for coffee on Wednesday lunch time. Athos looks at his pile of work and regretfully turns it down, but offers Friday evening up instead, inviting Porthos out to dinner after class. They dance together the whole night, ignoring what Aramis is trying to teach them, ignoring the steps, ignoring everything. Porthos is yawning and slow by the time they finish.

 

“Do you want to skip dinner?” Athos asks, rubbing across Porthos's shoulders as Porthos fumbles with his boots and bag.

 

“Mm. Maybe. Could just go back to yours?” Porthos suggests. “I could cook somethin'.”

 

“And stay the night?” Athos asks. “I... it might be a bit soon, for me.”

 

“Just dinner, then,” Porthos says.

 

They end up eating risotto again, and then curling up on the sofa with wine. Athos listens to Porthos complaining about the people at work, stroking his hair, stealing kisses when he pauses for breath.

 

Athos drives him home again, later. They make it a standing date, for Porthos to come back after the dance class and cook. They spend a lot of time texting one another random things, and Porthos takes to spending Saturdays sprawled on Athos's sofa, doing his accounts and whatever paperwork he has, while Athos putters about the house or tinkers with some of his writing.

 

They don't spend much time at Porthos's house. Once Samara goes home, Athos gets the feeling Porthos is avoiding it there. He advertises for a flat mate, but doesn't actually get anyone, turning them all down for one reason or another. He tells Athos he has a three month contract so can afford to be picky. Athos gets the feeling Porthos is lonely there. When Samara leaves, Porthos sometimes shows up at Athos's after work or on a Sunday. Athos doesn't mind, he likes Porthos's company and Porthos leaves Athos to get on with things, often napping in whatever room the sunshine's in, or trudging about the garden making lists of what needs doing, or making himself at home in the kitchen and baking things.

 

“I've got an article to write,” Athos tells Porthos, when he shows up on the doorstep on a Tuesday. “I'm running behind, not really much for company.”

 

“Okay,” Porthos says. “I can make you dinner.”

 

“Done,” Athos says, and lets him in.

 

Athos retreats to the office and ignores Porthos for the evening, focusing on his article. He's supposed to have sent it in today, already. He figures if it's there in the morning the magazine won't mind. He's trying to fit his argument into the word count. Porthos brings him a glass of wine then leaves him alone. When Athos surfaces, a couple of hours later, the house is full of the smell of fresh bread. Athos sends the article off, figuring it'll do, and goes in search of Porthos.

 

“I got bored,” Porthos explains, a little sheepish.

 

He's in the kitchen, sat on the counter with a glass of juice. There's a loaf of bread and some rolls cooling on the the rack, a pot of something on the stove, something in the oven, and what looks like a carrot cake sat on a plate on the table.

 

“I'm not going to complain, it smells good,” Athos says, heading for Porthos to kiss him hello.

 

Porthos shakes his head and scoots back a bit, so Athos changes direction and goes to investigate the pot instead. It's stew, thick and smelling of tomatoes.

 

“Thought it'd go with the bread, and it wouldn't matter when you emerged,” Porthos says.

 

“What's in the oven?”

 

“Courgette chip things,” Porthos says, frowning. “It was in one of your books. They've got breadcrumbs and cheese on, they looked good.”

 

Athos, used by now to Porthos randomly picking things out of the cook books without really knowing what it is he's making beyond 'it looked nice', opens the oven to take a look.

 

“They can probably come out,” Porthos says, crowding in behind Athos, wrapping his arms around Athos's waist and resting his chin on Athos's shoulder. “You're warm.”

 

“Are you cold?” Athos asks, straightening up and turning, shaking Porthos's arms away. “It's quite warm in here. Are you getting sick?”

 

“No, just a bit cold,” Porthos says. “Just... you know.”

 

Athos puts it together with Porthos's skittishness about being touched (though he seems happy enough to do the touching tonight), and nods. Porthos steps around him and pulls the courgettes out, then sets about serving dinner. The courgettes are good, and they go with the stew and fresh rolls. There's enough of a chill outside to make stew and bread a comfort.

 

“Did you get your work done?” Porthos asks, sitting back with a yawn.

 

“Yeah, sent everything off. Do you want a lift home? You seem tired.”

 

“Nah. I can cycle. Unless... I'd quite like to stay,” Porthos says, looking down at his hands.

 

Athos freezes. He still hasn't told Porthos. Porthos has been going slow, letting Athos distract from anything below the belt, as it were. He hasn't pushed yet, in terms of sleeping over or sex. He hasn't even asked. Athos doesn't know what to do. The longer he's left telling Porthos, the bigger an issue it's become, and now he doesn't even know where to begin.

 

“Don't worry,” Porthos says, gentle and without any kind of rancour or frustration. “Forget I asked, yeah? I'll leave it. You tell me when you're ready, I won't bring it up again.”

 

“I should just tell you,” Athos says. “It's just one thing that I need to tell you.”

 

Porthos shrugs, yawning again.

 

“I'm too tired to deal with anything big tonight, anyway,” Porthos says. “No revelations till the morning, eh?”

 

“It's not... maybe it is. Big. I don't know. I should just tell you.”

 

“Athos, calm down. Don't push it. Tell me when you're comfortable with it, I don't mind. There's plenty still I haven't said anything about to you.”

 

“No, I'm just putting it off for no reason. I've been comfortable with you knowing for a while. I want you to know.”

 

“If it's gonna be emotional for you, I'd wait,” Porthos warns. “I'm not up for much in the way of supporting you tonight.”

 

“I know. It's okay. I want you to stay, to hold you, if that's okay. To wake up with you at least, tomorrow. You're tired. I'll just say it, okay?”

 

“Alright.”

 

“I'm trans.”

 

Porthos doesn't reply. Athos looks up. Porthos is looking at him, blinking, confusion spreading over his face.

 

“Transgender,” Athos says. “As in I've transitioned from one gender to another. As in I'm not biologically a typical male as society sees it.”

 

“Was... was I meant not to know that?” Porthos asks, looking worried. “I'm sorry. Um, d'Artagnan told me, ages an' ages ago. I didn't know it was a secret. Thought you just didn't talk about it. Plus, you're writin' that book. You told me about it.”

 

“Oh,” Athos says.

 

He has told Porthos quite a lot about the book. He spends his Wednesday mornings, now, with a youth support group for research, so he's probably said stuff about that, too. Porthos has read some of his stuff, dipping into what's on the shelves. Athos flushes. Of course Porthos knows. Athos had thought it a bit odd that Porthos never questioned anything.

 

“Oh,” Athos says again.

 

“Sorry,” Porthos says. “Maybe d'Artagnan shouldn't have said anything. Or should I have said something? Are you upset? I can't tell.”

 

“No,” Athos says, and realises it's true. “I'm not upset. I'm a bit relieved, actually. It's always... I'm always a little apprehensive that people knowing will change things. But you've known for ages and it's still fine. So, no, I'm not upset.”

 

Porthos breathes a sigh of relief and Athos realises he was really worried about it. Athos wants to give him a hug, but Porthos probably wouldn't be very receptive to that, right now, so Athos just watches him.

 

“Do the dishes tomorrow?” Porthos suggests, after a bit, rubbing his face and yawning again.

 

“Go on, go stretch out on the bed, or curl up in the living-room, whichever you want. I'll clear things up a bit and get a book.”

 

“Might take you up on the offer of the bed,” Porthos says, looking sheepish again. “I'm knackered. It's only Tuesday, I don't know why.”

 

“Long day?” Athos suggests.

 

“Maybe. Oh, fuck,” Porthos says, sitting up straight.

 

“What is it?” Athos asks, keeping his voice steady and calm. He's learnt that if Porthos gets frustrated or upset or worried, matching his tone does not help a bit.

 

“Yeah. This morning. I had a flashback, at work. It was just a small one, no one noticed anything. I forgot about it.”

 

That's something else Athos has learnt. Porthos forgets things, sometimes. Not in a forgetful way, in a blank space black out kind of way. It freaks Porthos out, but Athos thinks it's understandable. There are things Porthos's mind doesn't deal with.

 

“It's alright,” Athos says. “It wasn't important to remember.”

 

“I guess not,” Porthos says, biting his lip. “I should write it down, to remember to tell my GP.”

 

“I'll get you a notepad. Do you want anything for desert?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you want a hug?”

 

“No.”

 

Athos goes to get some paper and a pen, then clears the table and starts putting everything in the kitchen away. He does the dishes, too, and cleans the counter tops and sweeps the floor, then looks around. There's nothing left to tidy, though, so he goes back to the dining room. Porthos isn't there, the notepad's discarded on the table along with the pen. Athos checks the living-room, and then the bedroom.

 

Porthos is sprawled over the entire bed, in his pants and a t-shirt that's ridden up. He's on his back, star-fished out, the slight softness of his belly on show. Porthos is muscular and Athos has seen how strong he is, but there's still a certain softness to him. Athos loves it.

 

“Hey,” Athos says, to let Porthos know he's there, before heading to the bed to sit.

 

“You can touch,” Porthos says, voice low and drowsy, eyes slitting open a little.

 

Athos rests his hand on Porthos's belly, which makes Porthos laugh.

 

“You like my stomach, don't you?” Porthos says.

 

“Yes,” Athos says pressing a kiss above where his hand is splayed. “I like all of you. You're very beautiful.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Athos kisses Porthos's stomach again, then crawls onto the bed and curls up against his side, resting his head on Porthos's shoulder and chest.

 

“I think I'm falling in love with you,” Athos says.

 

“Oh. Um.”

 

“You don't have to say it back. Especially when I don't say it properly.”

 

“I'm not good at it, at the words. You know though, right?”

 

“Yes, I know. You show me, all the time.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Do you want to sleep?”

 

“Not yet. Maybe just lie here with you.”

 

“I can do that. Let me know if you need me to back off at all.”

 

“I'm good. I feel better. Always feel better with you.”

 

“Oh. Do you?”

 

“Yeah. It's not a cure or nothing, but yeah. You're company helps.”

 

“I'm glad.”

 

They lie tangled together, Porthos telling Athos about one thing or another. Athos doesn't feel like he needs to make conversation, or be careful about how he lies so he's not showing parts of his body, or worry about where Porthos's hands wander. It's gentle, and comfortable. When Porthos starts drifting off Athos nudges him to get under the covers instead of on top, and goes to get his book. Porthos falls asleep against Athos's hip, as Athos reads.

 

Athos wakes in the middle of the night. Porthos is sat very upright, breath coming fast and harsh. Athos yawns and moves out of the way, out of Porthos's space. He's not sure if Porthos is awake, or asleep, but he remembers Porthos warning him about lashing out.

 

“Are you alright?” Athos asks.

 

“Yes,” Porthos says. “Just a dream. I don't even remember it. Happens sometimes.”

 

“Often?”

 

“Often enough.”

 

“Do you want to sleep on your own?”

 

“No. You can touch, I'm alright.”

 

Athos yawns again and wraps himself around Porthos from behind, resting against his back. Athos pillows his head on Porthos's shoulder and closes his eyes, dozing, until Porthos relaxes. Porthos turns and holds Athos, guiding him back to the bed, kissing him gently.

 

“Go back to sleep,” Porthos whispers, pulling Athos close, cradling him.

 

Athos does as he's told.

 


	4. Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: lack of communication during sex leading to a situation one partner doesn't like. This is the chapter where they talk about rape, it has nothing to do with the sex.

"You're going to be late," Athos calls, hearing Porthos finally get up. "I made you some sandwiches, they're on the side."

 

Porthos pauses in the hallway, then, by the sounds, changes direction from the bathroom to the office. He comes in, slumping down in the arm chair set by the bookcase, wearing nothing but his pants.

 

"I'm calling in sick," Porthos says.

 

He looks tense and unhappy about it, and Athos knows he has to be careful about how he reacts. He's been dating Porthos for nearly two months, now, and he knows how this goes.

 

"Alright," he says. "Do you want me to ask how you are?"

 

"No."

 

"Okay. Go get a blanket or a jumper or something, it's not warm in here."

 

Porthos gets up again and lumbers out. Athos hears the bathroom door open. He types up a few sentences, still listening, and hears Porthos go back to the bedroom. He hears Porthos's voice and then Porthos is coming back, wrapped in a blanket. He curls in the arm chair. Athos focusses on his work again. Porthos will be fine there for the moment.

 

Athos is about halfway through a first draft of his book, the draft where everything is a mess and he just scrawls it all out as it comes. It's his favourite draft, he doesn't have to think much, just lets the story carry him. He consults his Notebook of Ideas sometimes, or the stuff that's still stuck around the office, but otherwise he's not paying attention to anything beyond himself and the narrative.

 

"Athos, sorry," Porthos says, a couple of hours in.

 

Athos turns away from his computer, giving Porthos his attention. Porthos still looks miserable, and tired.

 

"Why don't you get some more sleep?" Athos says.

 

"Can't. I'm a bit on edge," Porthos says.

 

"Okay."

 

"I might go for a run. Maybe. Or eat something. Or watch TV."

 

Athos smiles, and Porthos smiles ruefully back. They both know he's unlikely to do any of that.

 

"Do you want me to get my laptop and work in the bedroom for a bit?" Athos offer.

 

Porthos nods, relief softening the tense line of his shoulders. Athos saves what he's been working on to his shared folder and puts the computer to sleep, gathering his notebook.

 

"It's in the living-room," Athos says, getting up.

 

He expects Porthos to go to the bedroom, but instead Porthos follows him to the living-room to collect the laptop, and then trails him to the bedroom. Athos makes himself comfortable sitting against the headboard, and Porthos curls up, throwing an arm over Athos's waist, pressing close. Athos works like that for a couple of hours, entire body going slowly numb with weird prickles of pins and needles. He waits until Porthos is snoring loudly, deeply asleep, then untangles himself and heads to the kitchen in search of food and coffee. He finds the sandwiches made for Porthos and settles at the table to eat them.

 

Porthos, of course, wakes up, and finding him gone comes rushing in, wild and hairy and naked. Athos waits. There are several ways this can go. Porthos stares at him for a while, panting, then runs a hand through his hair and comes over, standing demurely by Athos's chair until Athos gets up to give him a hug, then clinging.

 

"What happened to your underpants?" Athos asks, around his mouthful of sandwich, rubbing Porthos's back.

 

"Dunno. Wriggled out I guess. You left me."

 

"I've been gone all of ten minutes, and you managed to get naked, have a bad dream, and wake up. You're quite the ambitious one, aren't you?"

 

"Will you come get naked, too?"

 

"I'm supposed to be working."

 

"Sex would be better, though."

 

Athos hesitates. They haven't really had sex, yet, at Athos's request. It's not that he doesn't want it, just that he's never comfortable, the first time. They've done some stuff, mostly with the lights out, and they've shared a shower.

 

"Come on. Help me learn how to make you hot?" Porthos says. "Teach me what you like. Take me mind off this buzzing."

 

"If I say yes," Athos says, carefully. " **If** I say yes, do I get something in return?"

 

"Orgasms?" Porthos suggests, nudging Athos until he smiles.

 

"You could make me that chocolate cake," Athos says. "The hard one that you hardly ever bother with."

 

"I could."

 

"Mm. Alright, then."

 

Porthos pulls back and beams at him, trying to tug him into the bedroom without further ado. Athos makes him wait, and eat lunch, and drink coffee, or at least let Athos drink coffee. Sex, for Athos, has to start slow. He has to really like whoever he's with. He has to trust them. It helps if he loves them. People ask, sometimes, if it's because he's trans, because of his body, because of whatever. Athos never bothers to answer those questions. The answers don't matter.

 

“You tell me what you don't like,” Porthos says. “Tell me what you do like. Tell me what you want.”

 

“You start.”

 

“I don't like it when I'm flat on my front. Some people enjoy doing that, and I don't like it. I don't like to be told to get down on my knees. I don't like humiliation or shame, I'm much too hedonistic to like pain. I don't mind stuff where my back's to you, but I'm not big on any of it. I prefer to see you, to be able to see you. To be able to find you and touch you.”

 

“Mm.”

 

Porthos doesn't ask again. Athos has never been good at telling, never been good with making words line up and make sense. He lets Porthos lead him to the bedroom, lets Porthos undress them both, let's Porthos lie him down and lets Porthos kiss him. Porthos begins with the familiar, kissing Athos's mouth and sucking his lip, biting gently, moving to his jaw and his neck, hands already roaming further down.

 

Porthos takes his time, and let's Athos remain silent, let's Athos's breathing and noises answer his questions of where? Here? Lower? Let's Porthos kiss the crease of his thigh and soft skin there.

 

"That's my cock," Athos tells Porthos, as Porthos reaches his groin. He feels shy, like he did when he was a kid and unable to go play with the other children, even though he yearned to, too shy to move an inch. 

 

"This?" Porthos checks, touching Athos. "'s'lovely. You're lovely."

 

Athos lets Porthos suck him, let's Porthos moan and shift and press slow, aching kisses over his trembling stomach, holding his hip. Porthos takes long, gasped breaths, moving up again to kiss his lips, to taste the sharp sounds he can't hold back.

 

“You're...” Athos manages, before Porthos takes his breath again.

 

When Athos has come he rolls them so that he's on top, and returns the favour, mapping Porthos's skin, the scar beneath his ribs, kissing the ticklish spot at his side, kissing the sensitive skin behind his knee as he lifts Porthos's leg, bringing it up to give himself better access. Porthos comes before Athos can do anything else, letting out an open mouthed cry. Athos stretches out beside him, letting his body go limp and relaxed against Porthos's. Porthos turns his face away, panting, so Athos kisses the place behind his ear, pressing his face there, waiting.

 

“Better?” Athos asks, when Porthos turns back to face him.

 

“No,” Porthos says, blinking a few winces and shifting, fingers skittering over his stomach. “Stickier.”

 

“I liked that. Thank you,” Athos says.

 

“Mm. It was good. You're beautiful.”

 

Athos never knows what to say when Porthos tells him things like that. He wants to make a joke of it, or brush it off, but he can't quite bring himself to. Instead he lets them alone, to be remembered in isolation. He keeps them all close for days he doesn't believe a word.

 

“So much beauty,” Porthos says, stroking Athos's cheek then pressing a thumb to Athos's lower lip. “So very, very beautiful.”

 

Porthos moves his thumb to press the scar on Athos's top lip, and Athos shuts his eyes against it.

 

“I don't know any other word for it,” Porthos says. “No other word for it. All this gloriousness.”

 

“I'm supposed to be the writer, and here you are rhapsodising,” Athos says.

 

“Who says I'm not a writer, too?” Porthos says, a grin breaking out over his face.

 

There's something fragile about Porthos's smiles, usually, on days like this, and yet here's a full blown grin. Athos pushes Porthos's hand away from his mouth.

 

“You thought I was sleeping, but I was

sly-winking to see the way your skin fit.

Smiled down at me in the sun-bright,

Never saw my eyes slit to watch right back, lit

you were lit like sunshine, wine-buzz

smiles, warm like fresh bread, you said

so many nothing rumbles, not quite

words, slight words, love words. Love.

You smiled, sun-lit, wide-light, wide-wide

cracked open to spill your warm love.”

 

Porthos goes very still, the fine tremor and vibration of his body and breathing stopping. Athos looks right into his eyes, daring, and Porthos looks back, grin softening and softening.

 

“There,” Athos says. “That warmth. That's mine, isn't it?”

 

“Yes,” Porthos says. “Always.”

 

They lie together for a long time in silence, then, Porthos slowly shifting and stretching, easing the aches that the restless tension leaves in him. He's supine and sleepy by the time Athos moves properly, thinking about getting back up, cleaning himself off, maybe doing a bit of work. Maybe just looking for more food, or some wine.

 

“You wrote me poetry,” Porthos says, lips clumsy around the words with drowsiness.

 

“I know I did. I don't know why. I told you- my poetry isn't good.”

 

“Don't say that.”

 

“Not that one. That one was for you, so it can't be bad. Please don't try to compliment my poetry.”

 

“Never.”

 

Porthos chuckles, low and languid, tucking his face into Athos's neck.

 

“I'm getting up,” Athos says. “Don't get comfortable.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Really. I'm going to go shower, and open a bottle of wine. Maybe write a bit.”

 

“More poetry?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Porthos laughs again. He sounds pleased, which pleases Athos after the day this promised to be. _I love him_ Athos thinks. _I love you_. He doesn't say it. Not yet. Not outright like that.

 

Sex becomes a thing they do, after that. Porthos stays another night and does it again, the slow exploration, and then Athos is drunk and he rings Porthos and Porthos comes and they have slightly more energetic sex, Athos rocking in the cradle of Porthos's hips, leaning into his shoulders, gasping and sweating. And then there's Friday's dance lesson.

 

It turns out dancing with someone you're also sleeping with is an exercise in restraint. Porthos's thigh between Athos's legs, Athos leading Porthos through the rush of a turn into a dip, Athos coming up on his toes and sweeping them away, arms catching Porthos as he spins, hands on Porthos's hip. Porthos forgets his feet, at long last, and they move through the room as if it's empty, face to face, foreheads pressed close, never breaking eye contact.

 

“Cure for a broken heart, eh?” Porthos murmurs.

 

“Yes,” Athos says. “You are.”

 

They turn, apart, then come together again. They slide and move off again, gliding across the floor. It feels like floating. Athos finds himself breathless, by the time they stop, foreheads still pressed together.

 

“You're getting on very well, Porthos,” Aramis says, interrupting. “We switched partners about ten minutes ago, but you two seemed busy.”

 

“Go away,” Athos says, without heat.

 

“I still haven't got them steps right,” Porthos says. “I think I'm done for tonight. I'm going to skip the pub, too.”

 

“Yes,” Athos agrees. “Mine?”

 

“Mm,” Porthos says.

 

Post-dancing sex turns out to be sex with Porthos in a very, very comfortable mood. He's lazy and slow, trailing his fingers over Athos's chest and ribs and stomach, eyes following his finger tips, breathing against Athos's lips, sucking a deep bruise into Athos's shoulder. Athos does the all the work.

 

It becomes something of a habit, which it turns out makes the dancing even worse. It's like foreplay, in public, and it makes Porthos hot and heavy and hedonistic, taking hours and hours over everything, especially orgasms. He wallows, and Athos allows it. Loves it. He's curious about what Porthos would be like frantic, though. He decides to find out.

 

“Don' tease me,” Porthos says, pulling Athos closer by the belt buckles.

 

They're at his, for once, instead of Athos's, and Athos has been kissing him for hours, getting him revved up but never going anywhere, and now he's got up to go get himself another glass of wine.

 

“If you drink more you'll get drunk and be useful for nothin',” Porthos complains. “Come on. You've got me all worked up, what are you goin' to do about it?”

 

“Mm. Not sure, yet. I need a piss, though, so it'll have to wait.”

 

Athos escapes. He takes his time in the bathroom, and when he comes back Porthos has turned his attention back to the TV. Athos gets himself his glass of wine and goes to join him. Porthos growls, but when Athos leaves him alone, he doesn't say anything. Athos starts kissing him again, letting his hand wander down his back, tucking into the waistband of his jeans and pants.

 

“Not again,” Porthos says. “I'm gonna kill you, you know that? If you don't kill me first.”

 

Athos takes him to the bedroom, this time, when he gets worked up again. He puts Porthos on his back and systematically tests every inch of skin for sensitivity, lingering with kisses and touches where he finds it. Porthos groans, tugging at his hair, pulling his head up.

 

“Please,” Porthos says.

 

“Mm,” Athos says, keeping his attention on the nipple he's currently working on.

 

He brings Porthos to the brink twice, until Porthos is a wreck. He's sweating, twitching, his hands clenching and unclenching. Athos feels his own arousal spike as he takes it all in. Then Porthos turns his head away, biting off a sob. It's good, for a minute, then Athos realises it's not a pleased sound.

 

“Porthos?” Athos asks, touching his cheek, cupping his face.

 

“Don't,” Porthos says.

 

“Is it too much?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Athos rolls off him, and Porthos at once curls in on himself, turning on his side, his back to Athos. Athos climbs over him and lies so they're face to face, and sets about soothing him, running his hand firmly over Porthos's shoulder and side and back until Porthos relaxes a little.

 

“Would you like me to help you come?” Athos asks. “Get it over with?”

 

“Just do it,” Porthos says.

 

It takes about ten minutes, and Athos feels guilty about it even thought Porthos seems to enjoy the orgasm when he finally gets it. They lie for a while, Porthos panting, Athos running soothing hands over his body again.

 

“I'm sorry,” Athos says. “Should have checked in with you. I wanted to work you up.”

 

“I can't do that. I think maybe it's something I would like, but it's too anxious, too tight, it all muddles up inside and gets crossed up with other things. I don't like it.”

 

“We'll do something else, next time.”

 

“I don't like it,” Porthos says, again.

 

“I don't want to... you should have asked me to stop.”

 

“Didn't realise what you were up to, sneaky little bugger,” Porthos says, sounding better.

 

Athos wraps his arms around him, and Porthos sighs, tucking himself in against Athos's body.

 

“Is there anything you'd like to try?” Athos asks.

 

“Have you ever had anal sex?” Porthos says, idly.

 

“No. I'm too small, and I don't get much from being a bottom. I find it painful.”

 

“Mm. We could use sommat? Like, a dildo?”

 

“I've used a strap on before. With Anna. I liked it, quite a lot.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, sounding surprised.

 

Athos feels stirrings down below from Porthos and laughs, cradling him, kissing his forehead and hair.

 

“You like that? We should go shopping, huh?”

 

“There's a place in town.”

 

“Or online,” Athos says quickly.

 

“Aw come on, it's so fun. See if we can make the store person blush. I think you get points for that, making sex toy shop workers blush. It's like knocking down a little old lady with a walker in your car, innit?”

 

Athos argues against it, but ends up giving in, mostly for the pleasure of watching Porthos bounce around the shop being an idiot. Porthos seems to enjoy pretending to be a unicorn, with a rainbow dildo horn. He makes Athos buy the rainbow dildo, simply because he finds it funny, and about a million different lubes which do weird and wonderful things. Like heat or vibrate or change colour or taste like champagne.

 

“We should get some condoms, too,” Porthos says. “Now we're having proper sex. Lets dump all this on the counter, or get a basket.”

 

They don't manage to make the bored sales person blush, but Porthos does manage to make her laugh by asking what a lot of things are and guessing very wrongly. And then Porthos uses a soft packer to imitate an elephant and Athos decides enough is enough and drags him out, going back in alone to pay. He buys some horny jelly men and an eye wateringly rainbow t-shirt with a unicorn on it, that says 'I'm so gay I fart rainbows' in bold. To make Porthos laugh.

 

It makes Porthos laugh, but he eats most of the jellies (Athos tries a few but finds it weird) and wears the t-shirt to the dance class on Friday. d'Artagnan stares at them all night, and Porthos beams and beams. Alice laughs a lot and makes Porthos dance with her when Aramis gives them time at the end.

 

“It's hideous,” Athos tells Aramis.

 

“It's beautiful. Are you going to come watch the performance? It's on Sunday next week, February twenty first.”

 

“Of course we are. Porthos is working, but we'll be there. We might be just on time, or a little late. He doesn't finish till six.”

 

“This job seems to have shit hours,” Aramis says, frowning.

 

“Yes. I keep trying to get him to quit,” Athos says.

 

Porthos won't, or can't. He still hasn't found a flat mate and Athos thinks he's probably short of money this month. The job's bad all around, Porthos has come home worried about corners being cut and safety precautions not being adhered to, more than once.

 

“I don't know how to bring this up with him, maybe I should just ask you,” Aramis says. “But I'm looking for a housemate.”

 

“You're asking too much rent,” Athos says. “I thought of it already. It's out of his budget.”

 

“Oh. I could-”

 

“Don't. He won't thank you. If you know someone looking, that would be different.”

 

“I'll keep my ears open. Want to do a lift?”

 

Athos does two, and Porthos and Alice applaud, which is embarrassing. He hurries to get his shoes changed and refuses to talk to Porthos until Porthos apologises. They head to the pub, for once. Porthos hasn't been up for much sex since the job, which is why they were dancing apart tonight anyway, so Athos figures he might as well go and get plastered.

 

He might not be dealing with Porthos being tired and stressed very well. He's used to Porthos being patient, if a bit jumpy, and loving and affectionate. Not short tempered and grouchy and withdrawn. Athos is coming up on the deadline for his first draft and he's still not got it finished. He has to go over it for basic plot coherency and language before he sends it in. He doesn't deal well with deadlines, either.

 

Athos starts with wine, then moves on to whiskey. By eleven thirty he's nicely drunk and has commandeered himself a nice corner. d'Artagnan's bending his ear about something or other, but Athos is comfortably ignoring him, working his steady way through another whiskey. He looks up when a shadow falls across him, but it's just Porthos.

 

“Come on,” Porthos says. “I'm taking you home.”

 

“I'm drinking,” Athos says, with a lot of poise.

 

“Yeah, so I see. I need to go, though, and I want you to come with me,” Porthos says.

 

“d'Artagnan can see me home,” Athos says.

 

“I wanted you to come with me,” Porthos says, again, an edge to it.

 

Athos shrugs eloquently. He hears Porthos's breath catch and looks up, surprised to see Porthos looking less bad tempered and more unhappy. Athos drains his glass and staggers to his feet, gathering his coat. Porthos loops an arm around his waist and steadies him, guiding them out to the street.

 

“I didn't say bye,” Athos says.

 

“I said it for you. Thank you.”

 

“Wha's'a matter?” Athos asks, stumbling. Porthos rights him.

 

“Just need company,” Porthos says.

 

“Okay. I'm not good company. I'm drunk.”

 

“You'll do just fine, love,” Porthos says.

 

Athos nods seriously, and nearly walks into a lamp post. He feels it's probably Porthos's fault.

 

“You're in charge of navigation,” Athos points out. “We go _a-round_ the poles. I'm corporeal.”

 

“That's a long word for drunk Athos.”

 

“It's a long word for sober Athos, too. Sober Athos is a twat, isn't he? Hey, Porthos, let's play a trick on him and put salt in his water.”

 

Porthos laughs. He doesn't put salt in the water, and stops Athos from doing it to. Athos pretends to go to sleep, waits until Porthos starts snoring, and then goes to get the salt. He can't remember which side of the bed is his but crawls in anyway, spreading himself out on top of Porthos, enjoying the gentle spinning of the room. He falls asleep before he can work out where his toes are, and he feels a slight thrum of anxiety as he sinks. You should always know where your toes are.

 

He wakes up to Porthos making a very loud fuss. He groans and pulls a pillow over his head, but Porthos pulls it off and rolls him bodily over, glaring down at him. His lips are wet and Athos sits up to kiss them, then frowns.

 

“You taste all salty,” he says.

 

“Yes, my darling,” Porthos says. “Because you filled my glass of water with salt, you drunken menace.”

 

“The next Star Wars. The Drunken Menace.”

 

“I was so nice and all. You wanted to salt _your_ water and I didn't let you. You must have sneaked out when I was asleep, you jammie wanker!”

 

“I really want jam on toast. Will you make it me?”

 

“No, I won't. I've got to go to work.”

 

Porthos goes away and leaves Athos, parched and slightly nauseas. Athos absently reaches out for his glass and takes a sip, instantly spitting it back and following Porthos to the bathroom to rinse his mouth and get a proper drink.

 

“I did my glass, too,” Athos says. “Drunk me is a dick.”

 

“Drunk you says sober you is a twat,” Porthos says, putting the shower on and stripping.

 

“Mm. Maybe we should fuck.”

 

Porthos laughs, but shakes his head. Athos considers the shape of him behind the shower curtain for a while, then shrugs and goes to make himself toast. Porthos comes out dressed for work, when Athos has toast and coffee. He comes and steals a bite of Athos's breakfast and a sip of his coffee, then leans into his space, crowding him against the counter, kissing him. Athos threads one hand into Porthos's hair to steady him and wraps the other around his waist, pulling him closer.

 

Athos takes his cues on touching from Porthos. He can usually tell, these days, when Porthos wants to be left alone, and Porthos has set out guidelines so Athos doesn't have to ask every single time. The longer they go the less Porthos seems to need Athos away from him. Porthos kisses him, but briefly, pulling away.

 

“Work, Athos,” Porthos says. “I need the money.”

 

“I can give it to you.”

 

“You want me to quit me job and stay here to have sex with you, and you pay me?”

 

“Not when you put it like that,” Athos says.

 

“I'll see you Monday night, alright?”

 

“Not tonight?”

 

“I need to go home, sleep in my own bed for a bit, change my clothes, do some laundry, do some cleaning. Tomorrow I'm going to put an ad out for a flat mate.”

 

“Move in here.”

 

“Athos,” Porthos says, sounding frustrated.

 

“What? It would be cheaper. We could share. There's plenty of room. I want to live with you, don't you want to live with me?”

 

“I've got to go to work,” Porthos says, aiming for cheerful.

 

“You don't want to live with me then. You're such an arse in the mornings,” Athos snaps.

 

“I didn't mean- You're in a right foul mood. Drink some water, take some paracetamol, take a long nap and I'll see you Monday. Bye,” Porthos says, coming in for another kiss.

 

Athos turns his head, and Porthos lets out an exasperated breath but kisses his cheek instead without comment. He leaves with a last 'goodbye', and Athos is left to his own devices. As he often has been in the fortnight Porthos has had this job. Athos decides to treat his hangover with wine instead of water and paracetamol and sleep. He makes himself comfortable in the living-room with two bottles and the box set of Harry Potter, and settles himself in to mope.

 

His hangover Sunday is un-faceable, so he has a couple of Vodka and tonics to straighten himself out a bit and goes for a walk. He spends the afternoon making crap edits and reading for continuity he can't remember. Porthos rings him at some point, but he misses the call and doesn't ring back. He's trying using the 'find and replace' option in word to get rid of his misspelling of 'necessary' and it's delicate work.

 

By Sunday evening he's hungover, but he decides to sleep instead of drink. He crashes into bed and tosses and turns for a few hours before putting on the radio and opening the window, untaping the box of cigarettes he has taped to the bottom of a drawer, to hide them from himself. He puts his legs out of the window and smokes. He nearly falls out, dozing off when the cigarette burns down, so he gets himself into bed and finally sleeps.

 

He's drunk again by the time Porthos arrives, but he's finished his first draft. It's still a bit scrappy, but he sent it off anyway. Athos figures the wine is a celebration. Ninon, who came over to have lunch with him in celebration, tuts about it and leaves, refusing to join in. Porthos doesn't look too pleased, either, when he comes back to find Athos sprawled in the middle of the back garden, rain pelting down on him, empty wine bottle clutched in his hand.

 

“You're such a twat sometimes, Athos,” Porthos says, crouching. Athos sits up to wind his arms around Porthos's neck, pulling him close for a rain-wet kiss. It's Romantic. “Come on, up you get. Let's get you inside.”

 

“I like it out here,” Athos says. “It's romantic.”

 

“Me kneeling in mud and you soaked to the skin and freezing cold? Did you know drunk people freeze to death without noticing it, because they think they're warm when they're not?”

 

“I did know that. I think in Russia that happens, though, not the back garden.”

 

“On your feet, Athos.”

 

Porthos stands and Athos, still holding on around his neck, goes up with him, laughing wildly. He refuses to lock his knees and hangs off Porthos, finding it all very funny. Porthos just scoops him up and carries him like a baby, strong shoulder under Athos's wet cheek. Athos finds it very sad, all of a sudden, and starts to cry.

 

“What are we going to do with you, ey?” Porthos says, carefully going through the kitchen door, sideways, not knocking Athos's head or feet.

 

“Keep me forever?” Athos suggests. “Something with that rainbow dildo?”

 

“No thanks, it's massive. Bloody horse cock. Stand up a minute while I get my boots off.”

 

“I should take my shoes off too,” Athos says.

 

Porthos sets him down, and Athos feels cold and lonely standing like that, so he sits on the floor and cries some more, instead. Porthos steps out of his boots, and his socks are wet and have a hole in the toes. Athos pokes the toe sticking out.

 

“Help me get mine off?” Athos asks, looking up through his eyelashes, trying to be alluring.

 

“You've got none on, darling. No socks either. You're in your pants.”

 

Athos looks down at himself. Sure enough, he's all but naked. He laughs, poking his nipple. He runs a finger over the scarred lines, almost invisible now, and pokes the other nipple.

 

“Like they're real,” Athos marvels.

 

“Mm. Can you get up?” Porthos asks.

 

“Up?”

 

Porthos lifts him to his feet and Athos laughs again, pleased with Porthos's strength. Porthos lifts him back up into his arms and Athos sighs, happy, and presses his cheek back to Porthos's shoulder. It's a coat, which is less comfy than if it had been a jumper. It's also an insulting shade of orange.

 

“You're orange,” Athos points out, in case Porthos hasn't noticed.

 

“Yeah, I didn't change, after work, cycled over in it.”

 

Athos nods. Porthos's work needs funny clothes and thick heavy boots and hard hats. Porthos sets him down again, to sit, perched. Athos lists.

 

“Are you gonna fall off if I leave you hear a minute?”

 

“Yes,” Athos says, hoping Porthos won't leave him.

 

All that happens is Porthos tells him not to and goes. Athos watches his broad back, pleased when Porthos discards his coat and jumper, leaving him in his t-shirt. It means Athos has a nice view of all Porthos's muscles working under the cotton and skin. Steam starts to rise from around Porthos, presumably because he's working so hard. Athos sighs. Always working so hard.

 

“Right. That should do it. Take your pants off,” Porthos says.

 

“Are we having sex?” Athos asks, wriggling out of his boxers and stumbling to his feet, holding his arms out in invitation.

 

Porthos chuckles and scoops him up again, and Athos laughs back, kissing Porthos's neck. A minute later he's dumped in warm water, which makes him squawk. Porthos laughs at him, hand pressed to Athos's chest to keep him from getting out of the bath.

 

“I didn't want a bath, I wanted to fuck,” Athos says, indignant at this behaviour.

 

“I know. I'm knackered, though, and you're freezing. So you're having a bath.”

 

Athos wants to complain some more about being dumped in water, but it's so warm and Porthos finds a wash cloth and runs it over Athos's shoulders and neck and body and that's nice, too. Athos realises that Porthos was right, that he was cold. He's about to start crying again when he's doused in water, Porthos pouring a large amount over his head.

 

“Hey!” Athos says, though none is on his face and it's pulled his damp hair back off his face and actually feels good.

 

“You're hair's all mud,” Porthos says. “I'm gonna wash it. As I said two seconds ago. Tip your head back.”

 

Athos thinks that sounds okay. Porthos puts his hand against Athos's forehead to keep the water off his face. Athos has a sense memory of his mother, so very long ago. Thomas giggling at the other end of the bath, his mother's hand just like Porthos's, gentle but firm. Athos feels tears run down his cheeks.

 

“You're a mess of weeping tonight,” Porthos murmurs. “You alright there?”

 

“Yes,” Athos concedes. “Just thinking about my mother. Thomas.”

 

Thomas had loved baths. Any kind of water, really. More than that, Thomas had loved baths with Athos, playing pirates or making ice creams out of the bubbles and serving them to each other, seeing how much water they could get on the floor before their father came and roared at them like an angry dragon. Then they'd run around the house in their towels, otherwise completely naked. Or, not the house. The house had been four floors, many rooms and corridors and hallways on each. When they were small there was a set of five rooms that they mostly used. A bathroom, a bedroom, a nursery, a small kitchenette, and a spare bedroom that had been meant for Thomas. They'd never wanted to have separate rooms, though, until they were teenagers and Athos moved to the other side of the house.

 

“My brother is in prison,” Athos says. “He was convicted of raping my girlfriend.”

 

“The heart breaker?” Porthos asks.

 

“Yes. She wanted to be a gold star lesbian. She didn't much like men. I always think that's why she left me, broke my heart, but it's not. I think really it was Thomas all along. It must be hard to love someone whose brother did that.”

 

“I'm sorry for it,” Porthos says.

 

Athos feels cold shampoo against his scalp, and that's familiar, too. Porthos's gentle fingers kneading it into his hair is nothing like the rough rub his mother used to give. It's infinitely better. It soothes Athos, the pain of Thomas and Anna eking away into Porthos's fingertips and then washing out with the suds.

 

“I felt it,” Athos says. “It hurt. I did not like to think Thomas capable. Everyone has a tragic back-story, don't they?”

 

“To an extent. Life isn't kind most of the time, in my experience. It's not a tragedy, though. Not for you. Your story began long before that, and has continued, and will continue long into the future. Moments might have been sad, but surely there have been joyful moments, too?”

 

“Meeting Anna. She was very beautiful, and I was a lanky, skinny kid, just seventeen, terrified at this ridiculous freshers' mixer. I had my name on a big sticker stuck to my chest and I was drinking a very expensive bottle of wine my mother sent along with me from home. Anna came striding up to me, asked if I was a lesbian, and then took me home. Apparently she wanted to pack as much sex into uni life as possible and make it a habit of waking up in random beds. In the end it was mostly just mine, or hers.”

 

“She sounds terrifying,” Porthos says, pouring water over Athos's hair, even though Athos is sure the soap must be out by now.

 

“A little. She liked to get what she wanted. We discovered a lot with each other. We'd both been to all girls schools, but there wasn't exactly a place one could discretely buy a strap on to test that out. It was rumoured that one of the girls in another dorm had one, and one of the girls in my dorm had a vibrator, but she never would bring it to school.”

 

“Huh,” Porthos says. “Girls' school. I forgot you weren't always the you I know now.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Time to get out, love.”

 

Athos gets up obediently, limbs heavy with tiredness and alcohol. So much alcohol. He giggles as the water recedes down his calves and ankles. Porthos wraps him in a big towel and lifts him again, and now Athos can press his face into a cotton covered shoulder instead of the horrible wet coat. Athos does so, nuzzling into Porthos's neck, pressing kisses there.

 

“Can we have sex now?” he asks, drowsily.

 

“No, darling. Time to sleep now.”

 

“You call me so many nice things when I'm drunk. Maybe I should do it more often.”

 

“Please don't. I was afraid, when I found you lying out there like that, so still. Your skin was cold and you didn't notice me at first,” Porthos says, his breath catching at the end. “Let's not make it a habit.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Athos tries to talk Porthos into a fuck again when they lie in the bed, but Porthos isn't having any of it. He does curl around Athos, holding him close and safe. When Athos cries again Porthos shushes him and hums to him, stroking his hair. Athos sleeps keeping close, for once. Usually he'll wake up and they'll be apart, but when he wakes from a dream, sometime in the night, he's still held against Porthos's chest. In the morning Porthos is gone, but Athos still feels warm and safe.

 

Athos gets up slowly, taking his time to acclimatise to first sitting then standing, looking through his drawers until he finds sweats and one of Porthos's hoodies. Athos likes wearing them. He's not that much shorter than Porthos, but Porthos is much broader across the shoulders and through the chest, so the jumper's big on him. He goes through to the kitchen without socks, but changes his mind half-way there and detours to the laundry room to get a pair out of the basket of clean laundry he left there. The basket's gone, so he goes back to the bedroom.

 

“Where's the laundry?” Athos asks, when he finds Porthos in the kitchen making coffee and examining the newspaper.

 

“Hmm?” Porthos asks, looking up. “Oh. Morning. How are you feeling?”

 

“Hungover. Where's the laundry that was in the basket? Don't you have work?”

 

“They're doing the electrics today,” Porthos says. “Day off. I folded the laundry and put it away. You're wearing the jogging bottoms that were in there. And the jumper.”

 

“Oh right. I was after socks, had to go all the way to the bedroom, nearly succumbed to the temptation of the bed.”

 

Athos sits at the table and, as if by magic, coffee and a piece of toast appear in front of him. He smiles up at Porthos, who grins back, amused by something. Athos pats his hair to see if it's doing something funny, then checks there's nothing stuck in his beard.

 

“What?” he asks, when he can't find anything.

 

“Nothin',” Porthos says. “Just reading the paper. You're like a proper grown up, you get it delivered.”

 

“It's just the local, they post it through everyone's door.”

 

Porthos brings the paper over to the table. To Athos's surprise, he takes the chair right next to Athos, shifting it close. Porthos likes space to spread out, usually. Athos quirks an eyebrow at him, but Porthos is stubbornly not looking at him, so he doesn't see it. Athos takes a bite of toast and contemplates Porthos. There's tension across his shoulders, but no anxiety. No bouncing leg or restless fingers. Athos reaches out tentatively, not sure touch will be welcomed. He settles his hand between Porthos's shoulder blades and waits to see.

 

Porthos leans into it, closing his eyes, so Athos rubs circles there. Some of the tension eases a little. Athos goes back to his toast and coffee, but leaves his hand where it is throughout, watching Porthos read the paper. When he's done eating and his mug's empty, Porthos lets out a deep sigh and rests his head on Athos's shoulder, leaning into his side.

 

“Are you okay?” Athos asks.

 

“Tired. I didn't sleep well last night.”

 

“No?”

 

“I came home and you were... I couldn't find you anywhere, there was just the kitchen light on, and the empty bottles here. I checked the other rooms and rang you, thinking maybe you'd gone for more wine or something, but your phone rang in the bedroom. I only found you because I looked out of the kitchen window while I was trying to decide what to do. You were so cold. I thought you were dead.”

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“I was scared,” Porthos says.

 

This kind of distress is new to Athos. Usually Porthos will be jumpy and agitated when he's upset, restless, frustrated. There's none of that, now. He just presses close and shuts his eyes, quiet and soft and unhappy.

 

“I'm not dead,” Athos tries.

 

“I know.”

 

Athos considers. He could offer Porthos a hug. Or suggest they go nap, or through to the livingroom. In the end they just sit there as they are for a bit. Athos pulls the paper over and finishes the crossword Porthos has started, reading the questions out and answering them aloud. It's an easy crossword and he starts insulting it as he goes, making sarcastic comments. Porthos laughs, which is the aim. When the crossword is complete they move to the living-room, settling on the sofa.

 

“Tell me about getting drunk,” Porthos says.

 

“What's to tell?” Athos says, shrugging.

 

“It's a coping mechanism?”

 

“An unhealthy one, but not an addiction,” Athos says, a note of defensiveness creeping in.

 

“What were you coping with? Was it something I did?”

 

“No.”

 

“Because if it was we should talk about it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Communication is important, Athos. I know you're all about keeping silent and not talking.”

 

“But?”

 

“If there's something you need from me that you're not getting, then I need to know. It could be that I can give it to you.”

 

“Why don't you want to live with me?” Athos asks, spitting it out before he can change his mind, even though it's something he's more curious about than upset. Though it did hurt a bit, like a rejection.

 

“When did I say that? You mean that conversation on Saturday? You were half drunk, belligerent, and trying to proposition me. You weren't asking me to live with you, you were asking me to be your kept man,” Porthos says, heating.

 

“I wasn't.”

 

“A second earlier you offered to pay me for sex.”

 

“I didn't mean it like that.”

 

“You were drunk before that. You'd been picking at me all week about money, and you know I don't like that.”

 

“I wasn't picking at you,” Athos snaps.

 

“I don't want to argue about this, so okay, maybe that's just how it felt. Maybe I got it wrong. I haven't been in the best mood recently, I guess, maybe I was just feeling prickly about it.”

 

“You've been grumpy,” Athos says.

 

“Wait,” Porthos says. “You sound resentful about that. As if it's something I did to you. Like my grumpiness- that's it? That's why you've been pissed off? Because I was short tempered? I'm stressed about the job.”

 

“That's a lot of extrapolation,” Athos says.

 

“That's a long way of sayin' yes! That's it, isn't it? You're annoyed that I'm not all sunshine and kittens!”

 

“No I'm not.”

 

“You are. Athos, I'm a human being, I'm not gonna be cheerful all the time. I'm not going to be always... I don't know.”

 

“You were short tempered with me,” Athos says, ducking his head. “I didn't like it.”

 

“You should have said something.”

 

“Would you have stopped?”

 

“No,” Porthos says, rubbing his face. “Probably not, but I'd have been aware that it upset you, at least, and been able to, I dunno. I'm not always going to be patient, but when my patience breaks an' we argue or sommat, I can afterwards be aware that it's upset you, and I can... you just lash out, to try and make me stop, right?”

 

“I don't.”

 

“Talkin' really isn't your strong suit. I'll take that as a 'yes'.”

 

“I don't like it when people are cross with me,” Athos says. “I never have.”

 

“Well, I ain't cross with you, most of the time. I'm just generally cross. How about I tell you when I'm cross with you?”

 

“Alright.”

 

“And if I get cross, or frustrated or whatever, and it upsets you, I'll come find you again when I've calmed down and give you a hug?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Do you want me to give you a hug now?”

 

“Not if you sound so amused about it.”

 

Porthos gives him a hug anyway. They cuddle on the sofa for a while, exchanging a few kisses. Athos is glad the talking is over. He wonders if this means he's expected not to drink anymore. He decides it probably doesn't.

 

“How much longer is this job?” Athos asks.

 

“Two weeks on the contract. They're making noise about offering me some more, though.”

 

“Will you take it?”

 

“Yes. I need the money. I'll look for a longer contract, after. Maybe even a full time thing.”

 

“Did you put an ad for a house mate?”

 

“Yeah. I've had a couple of people wanting to have a look, I'm showing them round Friday and Saturday evening after work, and one person's coming to see tomorrow after lunch.”

 

“You're going home tomorrow, then. I'll come. I can take the day off, too. More electrics?”

 

“Mm. Bit annoying, it means I don't get any of the weekend and work nine days in a row, but I get Saturday, then it's just Sunday, and Tuesday to Friday, and Monday to Saturday, and I'm done.”

 

“We should go back to bed, make the most of your time off,” Athos says.

 

“Still horny?”

 

“Mm. You're hot, I can't help it.”

 

Porthos looks down at himself, surprise splashed across his face. Athos looks, too, and smiles. Porthos is sprawled, long legs stretched out and spread. He's wearing boxers, so Athos can admire his thighs and calves. He's wearing a t-shirt, soft worn cotton, showing the slight softness of his middle covering muscle. It's everything all together, though. He's big and soft and beautiful.

 

“Thanks,” Porthos says.

 

“You don't think you're hot?” Athos asks.

 

“I guess,” Porthos says. “Never really thought about it to be honest. I like the way I look well enough, I suppose.”

 

“You're lovely,” Athos says. “I love you.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, gaping at him.

 

“I do. I love you,” Athos says, cupping Porthos's face, gently closing his mouth and kissing it. “You're growing a beard.”

 

“Not on purpose, just haven't shaved much.”

 

“I like.”

 

“You do, huh?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you love me. Cool,” Porthos says.

 

Athos laughs, his breath huffing out against Porthos's neck, where he's kissing.

 

“I love you too, Athos,” Porthos says, a moment later. “I didn't expect this. You.”

 

“Shall we fuck to celebrate saying it properly?” Athos suggests.

 

“Alright. But none of that rainbow horse cock, I don't think I could face the horrible job with a sore arse.”

 

Athos is still laughing when they make it the bedroom, kissing and groping each other on the way. Porthos lies on his back, giggling, while Athos gets the things they bought out of the drawer, emptying the bag onto the bed.

 

“We've tried the vibrating rings,” Athos starts, putting those aside.

 

“Liked those,” Porthos murmurs, running his fingers up Athos's arm to his shoulder, resting a hand against Athos's neck.

 

“Butt plug,” Athos puts that aside too.

 

“Didn't like that much. Too boring.”

 

“Strap on?” Athos suggests, holding the holster up.

 

“Hmm. Go on, then. You can fuck me.”

 

Porthos pulls on the hand still at the back of Athos's neck, tugging Athos to sprawl over him, so they can kiss.

 

“I'll do the work, shall I?” Athos says, clearing up the toys but keeping the bottle of lube. The plain one.

 

“Mm,” Porthos says. “As a reward, for last night. You do all the work an' I'll just lie here and enjoy it. You should take your clothes off now. I want you naked.”

 

Porthos keeps up the lazy thing until Athos presses the head of the dildo (not the rainbow one) to his hole, then he makes a mewling noise, going wide eyed and bucking, away from and toward the intrusion.

 

“Min… minute,” Porthos says, panting.

 

Athos waits, Porthos trembling all over, until Porthos nods. They go slow, pausing whenever it hurts too much. Porthos is very still by the time he's taken the entire length, knees up and legs spread wide, eyes closed. Athos shifts a little, so he can kiss Porthos, cradle his cheek.

 

“Alright?” Athos whispers.

 

“Hurts a bit,” Porthos says. “It's okay, I like it.”

 

“Tell me what you'd like now,” Athos says.

 

“Just you, here, like this,” Porthos says, opening his eyes. “Holdin' me. Goin' slow. Need you here.”

 

Athos stays for a while, and they lie together, a shudder going through Porthos now and then as he adjusts. Porthos begins to move, bringing one leg up so his thigh's pressed to Athos's side, trembling. Athos shivers, arousal making him shift his hips.

 

“Stop, stop,” Porthos says, breath coming in sharp pants.

 

“Sorry,” Athos says.

 

“No, just… can you… I dunno.”

 

“Is it too sore?” Athos asks.

 

“No. I...” Porthos stops talking, eyes squeezing shut, head back. “It… it moved. Mm.”

 

“Good 'mm' or bad 'mm'?”

 

“Good, I think.”

 

“Am I alright where I am?”

 

“Ye-yeah.”

 

Athos hums and kisses Porthos again. Porthos shifts a tiny bit beneath him, wet, open mouthed gasps pressed into Athos's neck. Athos kisses Porthos's skin, using his hands in the spots he knows are sensitive, arousing Porthos gently until he feels Porthos's cock harden properly again.

 

“I want to ride you,” Porthos says, and Athos's breath catches on the image, hips jerking. “Ow. Maybe next time.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“'s'okay. I'll tell you about it, shall I?”

 

Athos comes before Porthos does, Porthos talking him through it. When he's done, Athos carefully withdraws his strap on from Porthos, and helps him orgasm quickly. Porthos lies, when he's done, half on his side, mouth open, muscles trembling finely, panting. He's damp with sweat and there are wet marks all over the sheet from his sweat and come.

 

“Alright?” Athos whispers, undoing the holster and wriggling out of it, dropping it on the floor to deal with later.

 

“I think,” Porthos says. “Yeah.”

 

“What do you need now?”

 

“You,” Porthos says.

 

Athos wraps himself around Porthos, pulling and nudging until Porthos is resting against his chest and stomach, legs tangled, head tucked under Athos's chin. Athos falls asleep first, hangover and days of feeling awful getting the better of him. When he wakes up, Porthos has spread himself out on his back, and is snoring loudly. Athos stifles his amusement and goes to wash the dildo and himself.

 

He's in the kitchen with his ipad, reading through some stories an old student has sent him to look over before sending them for publishing, when Porthos wakes. He's got a cup of coffee, but he's abandoned it half drunk because he keeps almost spitting it out laughing. He's scribbling notes in the notebook he leaves lying around in the kitchen as he goes. Porthos comes and steals his coffee, completely naked.

 

“How're you feeling?” Athos asks.

 

“Good. Thank you. That was nice.”

 

“Not too sore?”

 

“Might take a bath later, if that's okay? Just a little sore.”

 

“That's fine.”

 

“We should do this sometimes. I enjoy it. I'll get better and it'll hurt less.”

 

Athos frowns, putting the ipad and his notes aside to focus on Porthos. He looks okay, so Athos reaches out and threads his fingers into Porthos's hair, stroking.

 

“You'll get better?” Athos asks.

 

“I just meant… sometimes everything feels my fault, is all.”

 

“Even the nice thing?”

 

“Wasn't all nice, maybe, for you. I wasn't...”

 

“You were lovely,” Athos says, leaning close to say it into his ear, kissing after the words. “Wonderful. Beautiful.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes. Darling,” Athos says. “You always are. I should tell you more. You do know that you didn't do you anything wrong?”

 

“Yeah. 's'just a feelin'. I know.”

 

“Good. I'm reading this thing someone sent me. Listen, it's hilarious.”

 

Athos reads the story aloud from the beginning, keeping an eye on Porthos and waiting for the shadow of unhappiness to leave him. Porthos roars with laughter at the story, all other emotions feeling in the face of his mirth, all encompassing like much of Porthos. Athos smiles at him.


	5. Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: panic attack

Aramis cancels Friday's class to use the time as an extra rehearsal. When he calls to tell Athos he also tells Athos that he expects his students to dress nicely even if they're just audience members, so Athos digs a bow-tie out of his wardrobe, on Sunday. Along with a jacket that might be from the nineties. He's got black formal trousers that he wears whenever Ninon says he has to look presentable, but he wears jeans instead. They're expensive jeans. He figures that counts as nice. He's trying to find a shirt when Porthos gets in, sweaty from cycling but shivering from the cold at the same time.

 

“Bloody hell it's freezing,” Porthos calls, crashing around towards the bathroom. “You'd think it'd be warming up by now. It was Valentines the other week, mate at work was saying how he got his girl a huge bunch of roses and won her good graces for a bit.”

 

Athos follows the sounds to the bathroom and leans on the door frame, watching Porthos peeling himself out of his pants.

 

“Should I have bought you roses?” Athos asks.

 

Porthos jumps, trips over and falls into the side of the sink, winding himself.

 

“Christ Athos, I should put bells on you,” Porthos says, rubbing his side, sucking breath back in.

 

“Sorry,” Athos says, less sorry than he probably should be, moving to press a hand over the place Porthos is rubbing. “Are you hurt?”

 

“Nah. Tough as rubber, me.”

 

“Rubber?”

 

“You ever tried to break something made of rubber? Mm?”

 

“I… guess I haven't,” Athos says, bending to kiss the bruise.

 

“I need to shower and we need to go, or we'll be late. Stop looking at me like that,” Porthos complains, twisting out of Athos's arms and putting on the shower. “Ugh. I'm so sweaty.”

 

“Mm. Maybe I'll shower with you.”

 

“No! I want to get clean, not horny! Go put a shirt on or something.”

 

“Can't find one, you'll have to help me chose,” Athos says, looking down at his naked chest. He's got his posh jeans on and socks, but he'd got stuck there.

 

“I'm starvin', you could make us a sandwich?” Porthos wheedles, backing away and getting into the shower.

 

“Alright, fine. But I get sex later.”

 

“Deal,” Porthos says. “You can fuck me. I have tomorrow off, I feel like having good sex tonight and then sleeping in.”

 

“Good sex?”

 

“Mm. Energetic sex. Maybe I'll ride you, hmm?”

 

Athos goes to make them sandwiches before Porthos decides to describe things. Athos has noticed, over the past month and a bit that they've been having sex, that Porthos delights in telling Athos in great detail all the things he enjoys, and making Athos hot. It's nice when they're having sex, otherwise it's annoying. Like now.

 

“This shirt,” Porthos says, padding out of the bedroom ten minute later in nothing but a pair of socks. He's holding out a blue shirt. “And my red scarf. You look great in that.”

 

“Is that all you're wearing?” Athos asks, taking the shirt and putting it on so Porthos can do the buttons. Porthos ducks his head, and Athos frowns, frown deepening when he feels Porthos's hands trembling as he does the buttons. “You alright?”

 

“Alright. Just not great. Everything itches.”

 

“Wear whatever's comfortable for you, I'll match. I'll tell Aramis I chose the clothes, it'll be fine.”

 

“I'll find somethin', stop worryin'.”

 

“Need me not to touch?” Athos asks, hoping to get a shake of the head. He gets a hesitant nod instead. “Okay. I'll keep my hands to myself. You sure you're alright?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, looking up and meeting his eyes, managing a small smile. “I want to come. Just fine me an aisle seat, hmm?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Porthos takes half his sandwich and wanders back to the bedroom. Athos follows with the other half. He needs cuff-links. He has three pairs, but chooses the simplest. He does his bow tie and jacket quickly, then sits on the bed to do his shoes. Porthos has got to jeans and it going through the wardrobe for a shirt. He hesitates, then pulls out a very old long-sleeved polo-neck.

 

“Do you think it'd be okay?” Porthos asks. “I'll wear that jumper Samara sent for Christmas.”

 

“It'll be fine, love.”

 

Porthos smiles, ducking his head, and pulls the shirt on, digging through the wardrobe for the jumper. They hadn't celebrated Christmas. Athos never does, and it came and went without him really noticing, beyond Ninon taking a week off work. Porthos swears he doesn't mind and doesn't celebrate either, but Athos sometimes wonders.

 

“Are you ready?” Porthos asks.

 

Athos looks up. Porthos is dressed, sneakers on his feet. Athos nods and gets up, going to take Porthos's arm then remembering and going to get coats and car keys instead. They drive in silence, Porthos leaning against the window. He looks miserable when Athos parks up at the theatre which is showing Aramis's performance. It's small, but when they walk in the entrance is brightly lit, there's a bar set up, and the programme they're given looks professionally done.

 

“It's nice,” Porthos says, taking Athos's hand.

 

“Yes, it is. Shall we look at the pictures?”

 

There are frames on the walls, and the programme says something about the local artist and prints. Porthos nods to the bar instead, so Athos buys himself a glass of wine and Porthos a glass of orange juice. Porthos takes his hand again and they wander over to the pictures. They're lino cuts of trees and forest scenes.

 

“You should talk to Ninon,” Porthos says, gazing at one. “Get her to see if this artists can illustrate your book. These would look great at the beginnings of chapters.”

 

“Oh,” Athos says, looking again and smiling. “Yes, they would.”

 

“YA novels often have pictures of people, right? And you want to talk less about the way trans people look and more about the rest of it? Just living as it? This would take the pressure off how the characters look. All atmospheric instead.”

 

“Yes. I hadn't realised you'd listened when I babbled on,” Athos admits.

 

“Of course.”

 

“It'll be down to the publisher, of course, but I might talk to Ninon. It's a good idea. I've got edits this coming week, and I have a couple of guest lectures off the back of my other book which is coming out end of Spring, but I should have a week or two off in March. Maybe we could go away somewhere?”

 

“I won't have the money,” Porthos says. “I found someone to rent the room, but I'll still be tight from paying the whole thing this month.”

 

“I own property. Cavernous places, remember? There's a house down in Swanage that isn't being rented at the moment. They're doing renovations, but not till April. It's just empty at the moment. We could go stay a week or two, by the sea?”

 

“Maybe. That'd be nice.”

 

“Who did you like to rent the room?”

 

“Marguerite, who Aramis sent my way. I think he slept with her and chucked her over, she looked angry when we talked about him. She was nice, though, and didn't even blink when I mentioned PTSD and bein' gay and you.”

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the doors are now opening for 'Right in Front of Me',” a clear voice says, speaking over the hum of conversation.

 

“Want to wait a bit for people to sit down?” Athos asks, wondering about the crowd.

 

Porthos's hand tightens in his and Porthos nods, draining his orange juice. They wait for the small crowd to go down to one or two stragglers, then go through. They sit near the door on the end. Athos looks at the stage. It's bare, except for a small scaffold square in the middle. They've seen people practising the steps over the past months, but they haven't seen the shape of it all, yet, and Athos feels a thrum of excitement. He turns to Porthos, and finds him biting his lip and sweating.

 

“I'm sorry,” Porthos whispers.

 

“Do you need to go?” Athos asks.

 

“No. I'm just worried. If there are flashing lights or sudden loud noises or surprises.”

 

“Alright. Stay here, okay? I'll be five minutes, I'll go find out.”

 

Athos waits for Porthos's nod, then leaves, hurrying to find one of the ushers and persuading her to take him to Aramis. She leads him through double doors into a hallway, and then through a black door into the backstage area. Athos recognises various people from his class and the other classes, stretching and shifting nervously. Aramis bustles through them and greets Athos eagerly, kissing his cheeks and linking their arms.

 

Athos asks his questions discretely, at first, but Aramis works out what he's asking quickly enough that Athos suspects Porthos has talked to Aramis about some of it. d'Artagnan comes to claim a good luck hug from Athos, and Anne and Constance come over to ask if he and Porthos are watching, then Aramis leads him back towards the door.

 

“It'll be fine,” Aramis says, kissing his cheek. “There's nothing loud or sudden, and the lighting's minimal. It's just one of the kids from the local sixth form. I think there's a spot light and otherwise it's more or less just up or down.”

 

“Thank you,” Athos says, hurrying back to his seat.

 

“Well?” Porthos asks.

 

“It's fine. Just tell me if you need to leave, though.”

 

Porthos nods and takes his hand, knitting their fingers. The house lights go out and the stage lights come up, and it begins.

 

It's simple enough, but Aramis has managed to work a narrative through it, a kind of love story between Anne and Constance that has them coming together again and again in increasingly intricate dances, breaking apart to dance with other people, who then come together, only for Anne and Constance to meet. It's almost entirely tango, so there's passion and lust as much as love, and the pace is quick. Athos can pick out the different levels the dancers are at, but only because he's watched Aramis teach for years. They all dance their steps smoothly and practised, the simplicity of some building into the complexity of others.

 

The audience stands to cheer at the end, and there are cheerful cat calls when Anne and Constance take their bow. Porthos raises his voice to call for an encore, and the audience takes it up, stamping and clapping until Anne and Constance dance again. Porthos grins at Athos, pleased with himself.

 

They stick around afterwards, in a big hall that has a bar set up at one end. The programme says that the performers will join them, so they get drinks and find a place to sit. Porthos is vibrating at Athos's side, whether with anxiety or excitement Athos can't tell. His leg's bouncing, but his fingers are still.

 

Aramis comes out first, beaming around and accepting the congratulations people call to him, pausing here and there to talk. He makes his way to Athos and Porthos, opening his arms for hugs. Athos sighs but gets up to give him one, giving him a proper one in the hopes it'll stop him asking Porthos.

 

“It was great,” Porthos says. “It was really fun to watch. Are you doing it again?”

 

“Just the one night, here. We're showing it up at the studio, to small groups, next week. But not the full cast and it's shrunk down,” Aramis says. “Maybe another time I'll do it so we have another performance space, too. Maybe next time you'll get involved? You've started to move wonderfully.”

 

Porthos twitches, so Athos directs the conversation in another direction. The direction of encouraging Aramis to buy him another glass of wine. Aramis gives in with good grace, heading to the bar. He joins d'Artagnan and Constance there and gets held up talking to them, so Athos sits back down.

 

“Do you want a drink?” Athos asks, belatedly.

 

“No. Better not, when I'm like this,” Porthos says, voice low.

 

“Do you want to go home?”

 

Porthos doesn't answer, but he's sat hunched in on himself, body language painfully defensive, and he's started absent-mindedly scratching at the skin on the inside of one wrist. Athos wants to reach out and still the hand, but he doesn't. The skin is red and sore looking there.

 

“You're scratching yourself,” Athos murmurs, for Porthos's ears only.

 

“Oh. Sorry. Bad habit.”

 

“Would you like to go home?” Athos offers again.

 

Porthos tugs down his jumper sleeve and puts his hands on his knees, straightening up and smiling. Athos looks up and sees Anne and Louis and Constance approaching. Or Anne and Constance and Louis tagging along behind.

 

“You were wonderful,” Athos says, getting to his feet, smile genuine. He kisses Anne's cheek and hugs Constance.

 

“You enjoyed it?” Constance asks.

 

“Yes, very much,” Athos says. “You and Anne dance beautifully together.”

 

“Yes we do,” Constance says, face flushed with happiness. She presses close, mouth near his ear to whisper, “I'm hoping to escape soon. Has it ever made you a bit hot?”

 

“God, I don't need to know that,” Athos says, eyes skittering to Porthos and quickly away. Constance cackles, catching his glance. He blushes.

 

“You do, that's why you don't come to pub so much any more,” Constance says, gleefully squeezing his arm. “You'll help me persuade Aramis to let me and my handsome boy go, then, won't you?”

 

“If it will shut you up,” Athos agrees. “You do mean d'Artagnan, don't you? Only handsome-”

 

“He's lovely,” Constance says, firmly.

 

Porthos gets to his feet to belatedly congratulate Anne and Constance, stuttering over Constance's name and stepping back to avoid Anne's hand when she reaches out to touch his arm.

 

“We should probably go, too, anyway,” Athos says. “Porthos was working till late.”

 

“I am a little tired,” Porthos says, taking Athos's hand again.

 

“If we go tell Aramis, you can sweep out on our coat tails,” Athos tells Constance.

 

Constance keeps hold of his arm, and Porthos his hand, so they approach Aramis in a long line. He turns to greet them, laughing, and Constance tugs d'Artagnan to her side, too.

 

“We're going to head off,” Athos tells Aramis. “I've had enough of the crowd and Porthos is tired.”

 

“Oh,” Aramis says. “I was about to buy you wine.”

 

“Maybe next time,” Athos says.

 

“Alright, if you insist. I know what you're like with big groups of people. Thank you for coming,” Aramis says.

 

There are a few other pleasantries. Athos has got used to Porthos doing this bit when they're together, but Porthos is breathing funny and not looking at anyone, so Athos does his best to be charming and distracting. Finally they leave and Athos makes for the car, worried by the way Porthos isn't catching his breath properly.

 

“I'm alright,” Porthos says. “Just having a bit of a panic attack I think. It's alright.”

 

“We can just sit for a bit, in the car.”

 

“No, I want to go home. Please.”

 

Athos nods and waits for Porthos to let go of his hand. He drives back in silence, listening to Porthos's breathing as it speeds up, until he's gasping, every in breath coming after a pause. When Athos pulls up to open the garage door Porthos tumbles out after him, heading for the bushes, and throws up. Athos puts the car away quickly and goes back out, shutting the door. Porthos is still by the hedge, wheezing and gasping.

 

“Can I touch you?” Athos asks. “Just to take your elbow to guide you inside.”

 

“Ye...” Porthos says, wide eyed.

 

He watches Athos's hand carefully, but when Athos does exactly as he laid out, Porthos relaxes a tiny bit. Athos takes him into the living room and goes to fetch a paper bag. Porthos laughs when he catches on to what Athos wants him to do with it.

 

“It might help,” Athos says.

 

Porthos shrugs and takes the bag. He leans on his knees, head hanging, and gasps for a while. Athos sits with him. He can't think of anything to say.

 

“Would it help for me to talk?” Athos asks.

 

Porthos nods, tears falling over his cheeks. Athos nods, but still can't think what to say. He reaches for his book, left open on the sofa arm that morning, almost automatically. Holding it, though, he gets an idea. He flicks to the start of the chapter and starts reading. It's Anna Kerennina, the chapter about Constantine in the country side. Athos pitches his voice to what he hopes it a soothing volume and tone, and reads as Porthos tries to get his breathing back under control.

 

It's an hour before Porthos is breathing regularly and evenly again. His face is wet with tears and he's slumped, exhausted, eyes shut. Athos closes the book and sets it aside, never taking his eyes of Porthos.

 

“Alright?” Athos asks.

 

“Yes. I'm sorry.”

 

“For?”

 

“Panicking. I should have left when you asked the first time, once we'd seen it. I thought maybe you'd want to stay, but… I know you wouldn't.”

 

“No. Not if it was hard for you.”

 

“I'm glad we went. It was good.”

 

“Yes,” Athos agrees, though he privately thinks he'd rather they had stayed home, as it lead to this.

 

“You can touch,” Porthos says, yawning. “I feel better, except being knackered.”

 

Athos takes the invitation gladly, manoeuvring so he's sat against the sofa arm, Porthos curled against his chest. Porthos seems happy with the arrangement. He dozes off into congested snores. Athos puts the TV on and watches Master Chef re-runs for an hour. He's just discovered a Great Brittish Bake off episode he hasn't watched that's on record and is about to switch, when Porthos wakes up and starts kissing his neck.

 

“Feeling better?” Athos asks, dropping the remote when Porthos bites his earlobe.

 

“Feeling like ridin' you. I promised, remember.”

 

“I do, but I rather thought-”

 

“You rather thought wrong, then. Come on, I've had a nap, I'm raring to go.”

 

Porthos takes Athos's hand and presses it to his crotch to demonstrate. He does indeed seem raring. Athos makes a few more protests, enjoying the way Porthos persuades him, using his lips and tongue and fingers to make Athos moan. He gives in with good grace when Porthos starts working on the button of Athos's jeans.

 

“Let's go now,” Athos says.

 

“Otherwise I'll get your trousers down and you'll have to waddle with 'em around your ankles,” Porthos says smugly.

 

Athos laughs, and nudges Porthos up, trailing him through the bedroom. Porthos insists on undressing Athos and helping him into the harness, so it all takes a while, Porthos getting in the way and then being distracting and then getting distracted, easing Athos to sit on the bed and kissing the crease of his thigh, licking and sucking at Athos's cock.

 

“Stop,” Athos says. “I want to fuck you.”

 

Porthos lets him go and gets up onto the bed, turning on his side this time, patting the bed behind him.

 

 

“I thought you liked facing me,” Athos says, getting the lube out of the drawer,

 

“I do. This is easier, to start,” Porthos says. I'm alright. Just give me your hand, when you're done back there?”

 

Athos puts a hand on the top of Porthos's thigh, nudging his leg a bit higher. Porthos, when he realises Athos is only going to need one hand, takes Athos's hand and places it on Porthos's hip, wrapping his fingers over it.

 

“Hold me there, I like that,” Porthos says.

 

Athos is as quick as he can preparing Porthos, but he's thorough and takes the time to press kisses to his neck, his shoulders, his back, the dimples just above his buttocks. Porthos sighs and rocks and moans, more vocal than he usually is.

 

“I think you're ready,” Athos says.

 

“Mm. Feels good,” Porthos agrees.

 

“You want my hand?”

 

“Lie down and get ready, first.”

 

Athos does. When he gives Porthos his hand, Porthos pulls it across his body and presses it to his heart, whispering 'here'. Athos nods, head against Porthos's shoulder so he can feel it. Athos uses his free hand to guide the dildo to Porthos's hole, pressing gently.

 

They've done this a few times since the first, and it goes quicker now. Porthos shivers and tips his head back, twisting to kiss Athos, shifting his hips. Athos moves gently, pressing his free hand against himself and gasping on every push in, fingers either side of his cock, trembling with pleasure.

 

“Uh, pull-p-pull out?” Porthos says. “Slowly. Just ease… like that.”

 

Porthos turns when he's free, turns Athos, so Athos is on his back. Athos groans as Porthos carefully lowers himself, thighs shaking. He leans forwards, crying out, hands planted on the bed beside them.

 

“Do I just lie here like a lemon?” Athos gasps, shuddering, Porthos sweaty and beautiful over him. Porthos opens his eyes and grins down at him.

 

“For a minute. Forgot how much this hurts. It's good, but…” Porthos shuts his eyes again, grimacing, and makes a strange sound that is half whimper, part pain and part pleasure. Athos sits up to kiss him. “Oh!”

 

Porthos tosses his head back, teeth bared, then ducks again to Athos's lips, nipping and sucking, growling. He starts to move, first just circling tentatively, then raising himself up and down. Athos gets his hand back down to himself and lets his head fall back, up on one elbow, hips moving.

 

Porthos comes first, fisting himself, getting it everywhere in a messy, uncoordinated spasm. He shudders, leaning his hands either side of Athos's head to support his weight, and Athos comes kissing him.

 

Porthos falls asleep almost before Athos has got the dildo out, and Athos goes to get a wash cloth to clean him up, figuring sleeping all night will probably become uncomfortable. The sheets aren't too bad this time, so when they're clean Athos curls up beside Porthos and lets himself fall asleep, as well.

 

Porthos finally finishes working for the horrible people. Two weeks later than expected, but also two weeks richer than expected. That's what Porthos says every time Athos grumbles. It's mid March, anyway, and probably good as it's getting warmer and probably a better time to walk by the sea. They drive down to Swanage on a Friday, Porthos keeping track of their progress on the Atlas even though Athos knows the way and, in case he should suddenly, randomly forget a journey he's done hundreds of times (a possibility according to Porthos only), he has a SatNav.

 

Porthos is wearing shorts, a Hawaiin shirt, and sunglasses. And flip flops. Athos has tried to explain that Swanage will be just as chilly and drizzly as at home, but Porthos had just put his hand over Athos's mouth and yelled 'holiday!' in reply to that. Luckily, for Athos's sanity, Porthos falls asleep somewhere around Winchester. Porthos wants to stop off at Corfe castle, but when he doesn't wake up in the vicinity, Athos drive on.

 

Athos wakes Porthos when they get in sight of the sea, and is rewarded by Porthos's exhausted wonder, wide eyed and open mouthed, nothing guarded about his expression. Porthos stares out of the window and Athos slows the car so he can see more.

 

“The sea,” Porthos breathes. “I haven't seen it in so very long, Athos.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“How'd I afford it? Who would I go with? Where would I go?” Porthos says. “Must be nearly six years. Charon took me to Brighton.”

 

“Mm?” Athos says, navigating a deep turn and keeping a watch for motorists coming too fast.

 

“We ate churros and fish and chips and… and Charon sat in a pub most of the day. I walked around on my own.”

 

“Sounds lonely,” Athos says.

 

“It was. It was at the end of our relationship, really. It was lonely.”

 

“I come down here sometimes, when the house isn't being rented,” Athos says. “Knock about on my own.”

 

“That sounds lonely, but kind of nice?”

 

“I guess. It was a respite, for me. It's a beautiful place in it's way.”

 

“Looking across the Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, it was soon to be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the three,” Porthos says.

 

“Excuse me?” Athos says, a little dumbfounded.

 

“It's from that book, innit? Howards End. I did it for me English a-level and learnt that off by heart for the exam,” Porthos says.

 

“Oh. I've never read it.”

 

“Got my English a-level just before Charon left. Then we broke up and I just… let it fall by the wayside with the rest of my education.”

 

“You've never told me much about it, or your… your childhood.”

 

“Yeah, I know. There's a lot I can't talk about, and stuff I don't remember, and stuff I don't want to get into.”

 

“It's alright,” Athos assures, quickly.

 

“Can we go to the beach when we get there?” Porthos asks, as the sea comes properly into view, filling the windshield.

 

“Yes, there's a small private stretch out beyond the garden,” Athos says. “Or we could walk up to the coast path.”

 

“We skipped Corfe, eh?”

 

“I was hungry,” Athos says.

 

Porthos laughs, and leans over to kiss his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

 

“I love you,” Porthos says, sitting back, satisfied for some reason.

 

The house makes Porthos's eyes fall out of his head. Not the size of it or the fact that Athos owns it, but because it's right by the ocean. Porthos runs around the porch, that stretches around three quarters of the house, running back to grab Athos and drag him away from the estate agent who put the house in order for them and was handing over the keys.

 

“Porthos!” Athos says, but it's no good.

 

“Look,” Porthos says, tugging Athos into the grass, discarding the flip flops, and to the edge of the sand, standing with just his bare toes in it.

 

“I told you,” Athos says, looking at the small stretch of beach.

 

“I know,” Porthos says, shrugging, grinning widely at Athos.

 

Then he runs, whooping, down the sand to the sea, splashing and yelling at the cold, following the waves out and then running back in again as they chase him. The estate agent comes and stands beside Athos.

 

“If you need anything, don't hesitate to call,” she says, touching his arm to get his attention and giving him an A4 envelope. “It's good to see you down here with someone, especially someone so joyful. I haven't seen you smile like this since you and… and Thomas brought Anna here.”

 

Athos turns, surprised, and then remembers that she's been overseeing this property since his parents died, and has taken him for much needed coffee or lunch on more than one occasion. He smiles at her, trying to remember her name. Nanette. Athos smiles, remembering her clearly now.

 

“Thank you, Nanette,” Athos says. “For everything.”

 

“Ah, Broussel's looks after its clients, Athos. You know that.”

 

“I know that you look after me, when I am here and need it. I do believe Porthos is going to fall in, would you like to stay and watch with me, and then meet him?”

 

“Very much.”

 

They watch Porthos leaping about in the waves, and watch him fall backwards, laughing wildly until the wave he was leaping over leaps over him, drowning it. The sea retreats and Porthos bounces back to his feet, running up the beach, coming to a stop in front of Athos, beaming and spreading his arms wide.

 

“Don't you dare,” Athos says. “If you hug me, I will not feed you for the whole week. You shall starve.”

 

“Heartless,” Porthos says, dropping his arms. “I'm wet.”

 

“Yes,” Athos agrees. “Nanette, this is Porthos. Porthos, this is Nanette.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” Porthos says, holding out his hand. When Nanette shakes it, Porthos clasps her hand in both of his and raises it to his lips. “I have the feelin' I owe you some of Athos's peace of mind. What scraps he has. You've got a look about you of a woman I once knew.”

 

“You have to tell me who she was, so I can judge if it's a complement,” Nanette says.

 

“My mother,” Porthos says. “She was a good person, very wise and very argumentative when it was needed. Had no trouble owning her anger. Skin dark as yours, and as beautiful.”

 

“He's a charmer, too,” Nanette says to Athos, smiling. “Good. I should go, I have work to do, but do stop by if you need anything.”

 

“And if we just want to take you to lunch,” Porthos says. “Do we stop by, then, too?”

 

“I would like to take you out,” Athos says. “Repay some kindnesses, of the many.”

 

“That would be acceptable. Come up to the house on Sunday, you know the one Athos,” Nanette says, and then she takes her leave.

 

Athos walks back around to the front of the house and opens it up. It's been heated, to get the damp out, and there's food in the cupboard. Athos sent a shopping list at the request of Broussel's. There's wood and kindling in the main living-room, for the fireplace. There's bedding in the master bedroom and two guest rooms are made up as well. Athos finishes his inspection and throws open the French windows, out onto the porch. There's a table out there and three chairs, and an umbrella.

 

“I made us some lunch,” Porthos says, wandering out, wearing jeans and the jumper Samara sent, around a mouthful of something.

 

“What did you make?” Athos asks.

 

“Just sandwiches and soup,” Porthos says. “Can we eat out here?”

 

“Only if you put socks on.”

 

Porthos looks down and wriggles his toes, grinning, but goes to get himself a pair of socks. Athos goes to the kitchen and finds everything set out on a tray, apart from a jug of water and two mugs. Athos makes three trips, sniffing the mugs on his final journey. It's hot chocolate, and Athos laughs, setting them down. He goes back to the kitchen and opens the small cupboard on the end, feeling around on the top shelf. Sure enough a packet of mini marshmallows falls down. Athos takes them out, too, and finds Porthos sitting, surveying the garden and sea.

 

“Ooh, I didn't see them,” Porthos says. “We didn't list those, did we?”

 

“No. Nanette always used to put a packet in the kitchen. Apparently it was one of the written rules when my parents were alive; to always have marshmallows in. Nanette saw no reason to discontinue just because neither Thomas nor I thought of it.”

 

“I knew she was a good woman,” Porthos says, dumping a generous amount in both their mugs.

 

The eat quietly, Porthos's energy settling. He's tired, still, from work. Athos watches him, glad that the shadows which have been in his eyes are lifting, and the tightness across his shoulders is dropping away. He reaches out to rub over the shoulders, down Porthos's back, enjoying being able to touch.

 

“D'you think we'll live happily ever after?” Porthos asks, leaning back, capturing Athos's hand and kissing it then holding it.

 

“No.”

 

“'course you don't, cynical bastard,” Porthos grumbles, kissing Athos's knuckles again.

 

“Eternal happiness is not only unattainable, but also sounds rather dreadful, don't you think? For you, anway. I wouldn't mind being endlessly content, but you like all the moments in between, too.”

 

“All the quiet moments, the times you let me see you vulnerable, being tired and cold and having you there ready to warm me up. Resting with you. Yeah, I like those.”

 

“I don't believe in happy ever after. I won't build my happiness to rest entirely on you, that isn't healthy, surely. But I do want you to be part of whatever future I plan. I do love you. I do believe that we might make a good go of it.”

 

“That was almost romantic, in a very down to earth kind of way,” Porthos says. “You know what I think?”

 

“Yes,” Athos says. “But, go ahead, say it. It will make you happy.”

 

“I believe,” Porthos says, smiling. “I believe that we, you, Athos de la Fére, and me, Porthos du Vallon, are going to live very happily for ever after.”

 

Athos doesn't think to correct Porthos's 'me' to 'I'. He doesn't argue. He just smiles, and sits back, hand held securely in Porthos's, and looks out at the sea.

 

~fin~


End file.
